SIDEWINDER
by Betz88
Summary: There's a medical conference in Phoenix, and Wilson talks House into going along. There is danger in the desert, and the boys are soon in the thick of it. Lots of violence and bad guys. Will they make it thru? And what's this about a horse as hero?
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a complete rewrite of something that's been around for quite awhile. I didn't like the way it turned out the first time, and so I changed it!

Thanks to Taru for the Native American input.

Thanks to Josh for the "Caper".

Thanks to Michelle for the goofy chapter about the final arrest …

And now I give you:

"SIDEWINDER"

OR:

"House and Wilson Go Native"

BETZ88

- Chapter 1 –

"I Want to Show You Something"

_Ahhh … crap! Here he comes again!_

Tall, lanky Chief Diagnostician, Gregory House, heard the footfalls in the corridor before he saw the man's body stride into view. He sighed in exasperation and with effort, pulled back his right leg from where he'd had it extended beneath his computer station console. He straightened in his chair and pain radiated through the leg, causing him to hiss through his teeth. He pulled his mental defenses closer and wrapped them around himself like a cloak. He clicked his computer back into work-mode and away from his moving wallpaper of Beach Babes, pretending to be immersed in serious concentration. He quickly combed the discomfort from his face and punched the key that brought up a more appropriate image. The glass door clicked as James Wilson pushed it open and approached the desk.

House did not look up immediately, still struggling to refocus his mental position from pain to tolerance. He unfocused his eyes and let the image of the moppy headed oncologist coalesce like a favorite photograph imprinted in his mind. He envisioned James' expression ranging somewhere between curiosity and concern, his body leaning slightly forward, hands resting on hips. His fingers would be splayed in an understated forbearance that often made Gregg smile to himself, but which he would never allow to show on his face. Wilson did not speak immediately, but hung back for some reason, and finally the silence began to create a barrier between them. House looked up after an awkward interval, staring through his woolly eyebrows, the humor of triumph evident only within the shadowy depths of his eyes. Wilson melted, just as House knew he would.

"What the hell do you want now? Can't you see I'm busy?" House's expression went from benevolence to berating in a heartbeat.

"Busy?" Wilson responded patiently. "Busy doing what? Ogling Pamela Anderson? I saw you switch from Beach Babes to that Gray's Anatomy spinal column before I even walked in here." His posture shifted gradually to his right side as his left palm rose in a gesture of disdain.

House shrugged, not in the least impressed. "Purely research," he said without a pause. "Curvature of the spine can be tricky …"

"So can curvature of the brain, House, and you seem to be doubly afflicted with both today!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gregg's tone was turning darker.

"It _means_ …" The younger man moved a step closer, leaned on the glass top of the desk with both arms, and lowered his face to the same level as his friend's. "You need to get up and move around, House. I know you're hiding away in here in the hopes that nobody noticed! But guess what! I knew it the minute I saw you walk in this morning." Wilson straightened and folded both arms across his chest defiantly. "That's why this is the second time I came back over here."

House's attitude changed instantly. His chin dropped to his chest like a nerve suddenly severed. A sense of temporary defeat surged through him as he slumped forward. He'd never had to pretend with this man. Slowly, he released a tightly held breath, and part of the pain he'd tried to disguise, rushed back in.

Wilson saw his friend's face tighten with the resurgence of discomfort, and hurried around the desk to Gregg's side. He also noticed someone in the hallway pause momentarily to stare through the window. Quickly he knelt and raised a finger to gesture at the picture on the computer screen, making it appear that the two of them were deep into a consultation. His opposite hand moved closer to House's upper arm. He spoke in a professional manner, distracting him, bringing him back to solid reality. "There are people in the hallway, House. One of them saw you slump forward and they think you're in trouble. At least nod your head and make them go away …"

House's head moved slowly up and down. He seemed to be gathering himself from within. Beside him, Wilson watched the corridor from the corner of his eye, and gradually people drifted away again. Wilson got up and went over to close the vertical blinds at the entrance door. He returned to House's side and leaned down. Gregg had never been a "feel-good" kind of guy, and Wilson avoided touching him as his friend slowly regained composure. "So … would you care to enlighten me as to why you're in this sorry state this morning? Did the kids notice before you sent them into exile on the wards? Or were you hiding from them too?"

House sighed, blinking as though just realizing once again exactly where he was and what had been happening. "Thanks," he said, "for whatever it was you just did." He did not comment on either of Wilson's questions.

Wilson nodded. "Whatever you need," he said softly, "whenever you need it. You know that."

"Was that a … 'you're welcome' … in some other dialect?" The question was not quite snark.

Wilson started to smile, the look of his face in its relief, brightening the dark gleam that shone from his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so. Do you think you can walk okay?" He guessed he was not going to get a straight answer anytime soon from this most guarded of men.

"Don't know," House replied shortly. "I think so. Foreman and Cameron gave me a couple of funny looks before they left here, but I didn't give 'em any reason to hang around. Chase's head was in the clouds as usual. He wouldn't notice a trolley car if it crashed through the window."

Wilson smiled and waited patiently.

Presently, House continued.

"Something twisted last night when I got out of the shower. I knew it was going to be a pain in the ass when it happened, but nothing I could do. It was already too late. Stuff like this … just happens, Wilson … and it's always too late to do anything. It seems to be the nature of the beast." He scoffed angrily, indicating his leg, which was again stretched out before him. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pill vial. "Gotta deal with it." He dumped a Vicodin into his palm and swallowed it dry.

"I know." Wilson's concession was nearly sub-vocal, and he wondered if he too was hiding from House's disability. He would give anything to alleviate the misery Gregg had had to deal with for the past God-knew-how-many years. His eyes burned suddenly, and he realized he had to change the subject before sympathy gave way to outward display.

Wilson walked across to where the strong mahogany cane leaned against the console that housed Gregg's stereo equipment. He picked it up and held it out where House could grasp it. House did so, then looked up, tight-lipped, afraid of what Wilson might expect from him, and perhaps also wondering what his own fierce pride could allow within the boundaries of concession or accommodation.

"Up with you!" Wilson said, placing both hands under House's elbows, asking no permission, but ready to lift him to his feet unless given strict orders not to. House gathered himself in silence, not questioning Wilson's touch, but pushed up to a shaky stance, hissing as the pain spiked again.

"Bastard hurts!" House bitched as he forced his leg to take what weight it could, and Wilson backed off and dropped his hands. Stubbornly House began to pace; hobbling at first, then stretching out gradually. "Let's get out of here," he grunted finally. "I need to walk it off." He headed for the door, his limp just above grotesque.

Wilson followed, matching his pace to the other man's, happy to remain at his side. "Let's get lunch," he suggested. "I want to show you something."

The Medical Professionals' cafeteria was on the second floor, and fortunately one of the elevators emptied directly across from it. Wilson and House rode it together, Gregg propped wearily against the back wall and James standing in such close proximity that their shoulders nearly touched. Normally, House would have bitched about that also, but today he was too sore to make a scene, and too grateful for Wilson's presence to do more than glare at his friend in mock defiance. For his part, Wilson watched Gregg with a mixture of amusement and concern.

When the elevator hummed to a stop, Wilson looked at House's pinched face. "When we get in there," he said, "you go get us a table. I'll get our lunches and drinks and bring them over."

House intensified the glare. "Still watchin' out for the cripple, huh?" he said quietly.

"I guess you could say that," came Wilson's calm reply, "unless you'd prefer that I just walk out of here and leave you stranded. Want to take bets on how long it will be until you drop where you stand?"

House saw it, understood how Wilson meant it, but hated it anyway. He planted the cane by his right foot and took a clumsy step forward. Wilson's right arm snaked out and steadied a bony shoulder. "Can you walk?"

House stiffened. "Yes! I'm crippled, not dead!" He pulled away stubbornly and moved forward with as little lameness as possible. His head jerked back fractionally in defiant triumph, but he did not dare turn any further lest his concentration waver.

Behind him, Wilson sighed in exasperation. "Like I said, go get us a table. I'll get lunch and join you."

House nodded dismissively and continued across the room. Curious and questioning eyes upon him made him angry and defiant. He arched his back and minimized the limp. He finally pulled out a chair and dropped onto it like a ton of bricks. By the time Wilson came to the table with their food, the worst of the pain had abated, but his appetite had all but vanished. He hung the cane on the back of his chair and extended his leg as far as it would reach. He popped a second Vicodin, and the pain lessened further.

Wilson watched closely as he set Gregg's hamburger, French fries, silverware and iced tea in front of him. "Suit you?"

House pulled a face, but nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure. Better?"

"I'm fine. So what was it you wanted to show me?"

Wilson's eyes widened at the reminder. He had completely forgotten there was something he wanted House to see. House picked up his iced tea and took a drink. Crunched a French fry, waiting. Wilson reached into the pocket of his white lab coat, pulled out a large manila envelope folded into quarters. He plopped it on the table between them. "How'd you like a week's getaway to Arizona?"

House wasn't very easily surprised, so Wilson grinned at the way his eyes widened momentarily as he picked up the envelope, and then narrowed to slits and his nose wrinkled in disdain. "To _where?_ Arizona? Arizona is a fly-over state. You 'fly over' it to get to someplace interesting! What's in Arizona? Better yet, what's in Arizona in _August?_ "

"Medical conference," Wilson replied with a shrug. "At a hospital in the middle of a Navajo Indian Reservation! It's been organized by an old college friend who I haven't heard from in years … Dr. Sonny Tse. There'll be about a hundred other medics who were also invited. Sonny needs to expand the staff, figure out a way to scare up some much-needed funding. He's asked me to come give a keynote speech, toss some ideas around. I can invite whoever I want to come with me. So I'm asking you. You can breathe some dry desert air. Give your leg a vacation from New Jersey. C'mon, House! This will give you a chance to … get away … relax … change of scenery. What do you say?"

House glared, his face incredulous and filled with dark bluster. He dropped the envelope back onto the tabletop without opening it. "You _gotta_ be kidding!" His voice was louder than he'd planned, inviting stares. "Arizona is full of mesquite, cactus, dust storms, tornadoes, little pebbles that'll probably toss me on my ass. My skin will be the color of red clay every day by sunset. The Arizona _desert?_ … In _August?_ You'd fry your shoe soles just by stepping outside the door. You want to melt your face off in that kind of sun? Be my guest. I am _so_ not going! Not this poor old cripple! No way! Besides, Julie would be pissed off that you invited me instead of her!"

Wilson's face fell. "Julie doesn't give a damn _where_ I go, or how long I stay, or who I'm with." He looked as though he would cry.

House was not buying it. "You're a doctor, not an actor, you know that? So you and Julie are at the end of the trail, huh?"

Wilson sighed. "Yeah … I guess it's pretty much over. And I'm not _that_ bad an actor!" He tilted his head and looked up at Gregg House through the shaggy forelock that always draped over his eyebrows by midday. "It'll really be good for your leg …"

"No!"

"Lots of smart people to talk to and keep you distracted from the pain …"

"No!"

"You can sit in the air conditioning with your legs propped up and drink coffee …"

"No!"

"I'll … let you drive the Avalon to the airport …"

Silence. Then: "_That_ Avalon? That fancy tricked-out Avalon with the hand-accelerator and the hand-brake and the comfy leather seats and big Bose sound system?"

"Yeah. That Avalon! The one I had modified so you could drive it!"

They made plans to leave for Phoenix on the early afternoon flight the following Friday.

Wilson packed his cowboy boots.

House packed his ray-ban polarized sunglasses with the mirrored lenses …

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7


	2. Chapter 2

- Chapter 2 –

"How About a Change of Scenery?"

Lisa Cuddy looked up from her desk when she heard the office door snick open, then a moment later, swing shut again. Gregory House and James Wilson entered, House first, Wilson holding the door for him. They approached her desk like two wayward children, Gregg on the left and James a heartbeat behind his right shoulder. Neither man looked angry, tortured or put-upon, but a little wide-eyed, expectant and hopeful. Did she detect an air of determination too?

Cuddy felt a moment of suspicion at the two of them together. Her first thought was: "Uh oh!" These two were a pain in the ass one at a time, but when they arrived in cahoots, look out! She placed her pen carefully and deliberately on the blotter and gave them her full attention. "Well," she said calmly, "if it isn't Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. What can I do for you boys?"

Cuddy was a little surprised it was Wilson who spoke, and not "Snarkmeister" House. Also surprisingly, the oncologist's hands were nowhere near his pants pockets or parked on his hips. He had a many times folded, oversized manila envelope in his hand, which he placed on her desk near the pen. "Take a look at this and tell me what you think." He returned to his former stance, staked out even closer to House's shoulder, if that were possible.

Cuddy's attention wavered momentarily between the two of them, but their expressions remained the same. Out of long habit, her concentration went to her peripheral vision, checking quickly on House's status with the cane. His right hand was hard down on it, the knuckles strained and white, his leg sharply bent and bearing little weight. Another "uh oh" joined the one already there. Casually she picked up the envelope and pulled out its contents.

"Dear Jim,

Been a long time since we burned the midnight oil together and counted coup on the freshmen. I'm hosting a weeklong medical conference here on the reservation the week of August 28-September 3. When I hit the key under 'Oncologists', guess whose name came up at the top of the list! I would be most happy and honored if you could join us for the week, and bring a guest. It will be good to catch up on old times, and I could certainly use your input on some projects I've got going at the hospital. We expect about 100 people in attendance from all over the USA, and I know they would benefit from your experience … which is a conniving way to ask you to deliver the keynote speech at the banquet Friday night. Besides, nothing is more beautiful than the desert in the summer. Please email me by August 1st if you and a colleague (or wife or friend) can make it!

"Sonny" … Suni Tse, M. D.

Cuddy put down the letter and paged through the rest of the material, which included photographs of the southwest. It was a bold inducement to people to make the trip: airport access, a map of Arizona, a map of the Navajo Indian Reservation, a general description of the area, an aerial photo of the hospital and a list of its staff. She finished and placed everything back in the envelope. She looked up again, her gaze going from one man to the other.

"I take it," she began skeptically, "that the reason you are here together is that you're actually asking for permission to attend this conference, rather than just breezing in and telling me you're going whether I can spare you or not. Correct?"

Wilson's head shifted slightly, brown eyes flashing, along with that deceptive little-boy smile. "Well … yeah … you could say that. Sonny Tse is an old friend from college. He's a full-blooded Navajo, and he started this hospital on a shoestring. It's been uphill all the way, and he needs funding on top of what he already gets from the government. He's also trying to recruit more people to join his staff. I thought I might be able to lend a hand. Dr. House has agreed to go along and offer expertise of his own."

Cuddy's attention returned to House, whose scrunched-up face depicted a "how-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into-this?" look. While he stood there, his left hand had snaked out to the top of Cuddy's desk as though seeking a means of balancing himself, and she wondered if he would go down if he let go. His chin was coming up and his head tilting back between his shoulders. The scrunched look was becoming a grimace. She sensed he was close to the limits of his endurance.

Cuddy picked up her pen and saw Wilson get ready to reach out and steady House's elbow. "Why don't you both take a seat on the divan over there while I go through the schedule and check to see what's going on this week."

Gregg limped silently to the couch and eased himself down. Over his shoulder, Wilson nodded silent thanks and sat down by House's side. Gregg's chin dropped and Wilson nodded. Cuddy knew it was the closest the older man ever came to a thank you.

She turned pages rapidly in a large notebook before her and pretended not to see. She had a feeling that this trip was as much a diversion on Wilson's part for House's benefit as an opportunity for a one-of-a-kind medical conference. She pretended to study the names in front of her. Cuddy did a lot of pretending for the benefit of Gregg House. His fierce pride and absolute refusal to be pitied held everyone who knew him at arms' length. Everyone except James Wilson.

"Dr. House," she said finally, "I see no problem for you here. Cameron, Chase and Foreman should be able to handle your clinic hours while you're away. Dr. Wilson, I believe you're better aware than I who you'd like to fill in for you for the week, so I'll let that up to you."

Cuddy walked out from behind her desk and sat down in one of the chairs across from the divan. She looked House in the eye. "Do you need to have someone take a look at you? I'm asking this as one colleague to another, and don't you dare give me hell for caring!"

The blue eyes bored into hers menacingly, but he was also the first to glance away. He looked past her, then up toward Wilson as though in confusion about what to say. Cuddy had seldom seen House allow himself to be this vulnerable before, at least not since the days of his original infarction. She saw Wilson look back at him in concern, and it sent a chill through her. What weren't they telling her?

"House?"

It was Wilson who answered after some small lapse of time, choosing his words carefully. "House injured his leg last night at home. I've already checked him, and it's not serious, but his pain level is up and his mobility is down. I asked him to go along to Arizona because I believe the dry heat there may be beneficial." He finished lamely, but Cuddy understood the meaning, and also his willing concession to his friend's pride.

House was silent during this exchange, seated on the divan, staring down at his lap and twirling the cane around and around between his fingers. He did not even bitch that they were talking about him as though he wasn't even there.

"House …"

When Cuddy spoke his name a second time, he looked up slowly, eyes weary. Both eyebrows rose in question, but he remained quiet. When he did not make wisecracks or snarl nasty witticisms, he was definitely at the end of his rope.

Cuddy wanted to hug him, but it would be like attempting to hug a wolverine. "House … go to Arizona with Wilson. Give yourself time to recuperate. Everything you leave behind will still be here when you return. And God knows, everyone else around here will certainly enjoy your vacation!" Her mouth quirked up at the corners, and when she looked back at him, she saw her expression mirrored a little in his tired face.

"I'm taking you home tonight, so don't give me any crap!" Wilson stated when they were on their way out the front entrance across from Cuddy's office. "You leave the damn bike here!" Wilson had shouldered House's briefcase as they made their way slowly down the front sidewalk. "Stay put! I'll go get the car and bring it around."

House looked up briefly from maintaining his balance on the sidewalk. The look on his face was dark, but he said nothing, which shouted in a voice louder than reason that he did not trust himself to speak.

Wilson turned the corner and broke into a trot, afraid to allow Gregg to stand there alone for anything but a few minutes. He fumbled the keys into the ignition of the Avalon in his haste to get back to where he'd left House, but Gregg was still there, his body curled over the cane, looking, as usual, pissed off and put-upon.

Wilson got out quickly and hurried around to the passenger side. House had the door open, but stood leaning on it. His head rested atop his arm, which in turn was propped across the top of the door. His cane lay on the sidewalk where he'd dropped it. House's left arm came up slowly and he draped it also across the Avalon's rooftop, creating a tripod that allowed him to spring his right hip and take the weight off his foot. Wilson hurried up behind him. "Easy, House. Let go and let me guide you inside."

House shook his head. "Give me a second," he groaned. "I can't move right now."

Wilson nodded, moving close, fending off curious passers-by with a fierce frown and rigid back, protecting his friend as he did so, lowering his forehead in support near House's right shoulder. "Try to relax. I know it hurts, but you have to lower yourself onto the seat. Hang onto the dashboard and I'll lift your leg into the car. Ready?"

"Yeah …" The word was gasped through his teeth. House pulled his arms gradually away from the surface of the car and transferred them to Wilson's shoulders. Slowly he slid into the passenger seat.

Wilson gave House time to settle down, then knelt and reached for the button on the seat control, moving the car seat back as far as it would go. "You ready?"

House nodded. "Yeah …"

Wilson could feel him take a deep breath and hold it. He pulled open the laces on the grey running shoe and stretched the gap wide across House's instep. "Might help a little," he said.

House looked down, and a ripple of ironic laughter floated upward. Wilson nearly went backward on his ass onto the sidewalk in surprise. House's hand reached out deliberately, mussed his friend's hair and then quickly withdrew. "There's nothing I can say … no insult I can think of that'll drive you away to get yourself a life … is there?"

The words were so low Wilson wasn't sure he'd heard them correctly. He bent to his task, his mind in turmoil, and very gently lifted House's leg into the car. He reached under the door and retrieved the cane from where Gregg had dropped it.

Wilson handed House the cane and House lowered its tip to the floor between his feet. He did not look up. Wilson paused for a moment, still a little rattled. House had never said anything remotely like this before. He reached over and placed a hand on Gregg's shoulder.

"No," he finally said. "There isn't."

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House's luxury apartment on East Side Drive was cool and comfortable when they entered. House moved carefully through the door and across to the couch. He dropped his backpack on the floor and laid the cane beside it, and then eased down without a word, hissing through his teeth as his leg hit the leather. Gregg began to relax. Wilson removed the vial of Vicodin he kept in this jacket pocket, removed one of them and held it out in the flat of his hand. "Here. I think you could use one of these about now."

House plucked the pill from Wilson's palm and popped it dry. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure." James sat down on the edge of the coffee table and looked into his friend's face. "Is there anything you need before I start supper? How about a beer?"

House frowned. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

Wilson looked thoroughly dejected. "Not so you'd notice. Truth be told, I'd rather be here. At least you talk to me. Julie doesn't even bother to do that anymore."

House frowned. "Sorry I asked. And yeah … a beer sounds good right about now."

Wilson rose and turned toward the kitchen. "I'll get us each one. Be right back." He disappeared through the doorway.

When he had gone, House snaked his right hand down to clutch his thigh. It was more from force of habit than anything else, but when the pain ragged at him like this, he believed he could almost feel the thump of his heartbeat in it. The agony of an hour before was easing off, but it had left him weak.

He hated the hell he continually put Wilson through, but he seemed unable to curb the poison of his own bitterness to let Wilson know how much he was appreciated. Other than tiny snatches of affection, such as the one he'd been able to force himself to give in the car, House found it next to impossible to show how he really felt. His fingers in the abundance of James' silky hair had felt good, dammit! He wished he could do more, but that would only draw Wilson closer, and he must avoid such concessions. Wilson deserved so much more in life than being shackled to a cripple, but the man's loyalty and inbred concern would not allow him to do any less.

They'd been friends for so many years, and Wilson had always been a softy. House wished he knew of a way to release James' heart and mind, but it seemed impossible. Buried so deep inside himself that he hardly recognized it anymore, House knew his world would crumble if he ever lost Wilson. Wilson was his conscience and the only governor he had on the runaway train that was his mind.

Wilson was the brake pedal to his gas pedal, the voice of reason against the tumult of his own complex emotions. Theirs was truly a strange friendship. Sometimes they got it right, sometimes not. They were almost like a pair of old marrieds: argue and nag at each other, drink a can or two of beer, watch porn, argue over sports events, and laze about on Sunday afternoons, completely comfortable with one another. They were the perfect "odd couple". Gregg turned his head toward the back of the couch and allowed himself to smile.

Some things in life were still worth the hassle.

James Wilson stood in the kitchen doorway with a frown on his face, a Coors Light in each hand, looking puzzled.

"What do you find so amusing?" he asked in his gentle manner. "The Vicodin must have started to take hold."

House wiped the silly grin from his face and struggled to sit up. "Just thinking about the Beach Babes wallpaper," he said quickly.

Wilson chuckled at the lie. "Okay, if you'd rather not tell me …" He set the beers down on the coffee table and went to the end of the couch, grasped House beneath his arms and pulled him back to a sitting position against the arm. "Don't move your leg and get it all pissed off at you!" he ordered.

House snorted and accepted the can of beer his friend handed over. "Yes, Mother."

Wilson shook his head and smiled warmly. "What in the hell am I going to do with you?" He was sorry the moment it came out of his mouth.

House didn't let him down. "Shoot me?"

00000000

Wilson made grilled sandwiches: ham and cheese. Broccoli tips. A large bowl of grapes, pulled from the vines, piled high. Later, more beer, a bag of barbeque chips.

They watched baseball on TV, but grew bored with it quickly. "You take notice how freakin' fat baseball players are getting?" House mused.

"Yeah," Wilson replied, taking another slug of beer. "Hit the ball, lay down and roll to first base!" He picked up the remote and clicked the set off.

"I gotta pee," House announced. He removed the pillow from beneath his knee and moved his legs slowly to the edge of the couch, knowing Wilson was gathering himself to get up. "Don't! I have to see if the damn thing's letting go any …" He gasped when his foot touched the floor.

Wilson was beside him in a heartbeat. "It'll loosen!" House insisted, waving James off. Wilson stooped to pick up the cane and handed it to him. House grasped it and stepped forward, testing. He took a step. Pain. Another step. Pain. Wilson was ready to leap. House held him off. "I'm fine!"

"Bullshit!"

House lost his concentration and laughed. He almost went down, but caught himself in time.

"House … !?" Wilson's voice was strained, half angry.

"I can make it!" He was close to the bathroom door. By the time he got there, opened the door and disappeared inside, Wilson was apoplectic. He expelled his held breath in a huge whoosh.

Sardonic laughter echoed from the bathroom in response.

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Wilson monitored House while House took a shower. Sat on the toilet seat while the water ran, turned his back when the curtain snicked back, turned around again after House pulled a big Turkish towel around his waist. He had grab bars in the shower and held to them tightly. "Right here's where I went wrong the other night," he said in an offhand manner. "Soapy hands. Lost my grip on the bar. Tripped on the bath mat and went on my ass on the wrong side. I think I slid into the base of the john." He pulled up the towel and showed Wilson a bruise below his hipbone the size of a grapefruit.

"Chalk up one for the competition. I'm sure there are a few thousand other lessons out there just waiting for me to learn the hard way. Like I said this morning … this stuff just happens. You can't guard me twenty-four hours a day, Wilson. I'm lame and pathetic! There's nothing anybody can do about it. Don't drive yourself nuts trying to protect me. All those potential accidents will just wait until neither of us is paying any attention. Then _blam!_ But thanks for trying."

"You know where I am when you need anything …" James' voice trailed off awkwardly.

"Yeah. You know, the closer it gets, the more I'm looking forward to that trip to Arizona. Might do both of us a lot of good. More me than you though. You're going out there to work. I'm going along to loaf. So tell me more about Sonny and his Injun hospital …"

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Wilson stayed the night. On the couch.

Again.

Someone had to drive House to work the next morning, and it wasn't like they were shacking up together or anything …

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	3. Chapter 3

- Chapter 3 –

"The Airport"

Wilson was dressed to the nines when he arrived at House's apartment at 6:45 Friday morning: medium blue suit, white shirt, dark blue tie. French loafers. His hair was slicked back with a perfect wave in front, obviously arranged with conscious effort using men's hair spray. He looked and smelled like a movie star, and when House opened his front door to admit him, any compliment Wilson might have felt he deserved for sartorial splendor disintegrated into thin air at the wrinkled nose of the man before him. House stood back, spinning his cane at shoulder height, and looked his friend up and down as James walked past him and entered the living room.

"_What??"_

Wilson asked peevishly, spinning on his heel and already suspicious of the still-unspoken snark that settled into the air around him.

"You remind me of a department store dummy," House stated with a leer. "And you expect me to ride on the same plane with you? Ain't gonna happen, Tonto! Not until you wash that shit out … and you've got a white spot over your eye that hasn't seen the sun in twenty years. I always assumed there was a dent in your head that you covered up with hair. The 'plastic look' just doesn't work for you, Wilson. Sorry. Looks like something you take off at night and hang on the bedpost. Get your butt in the bathroom!"

"House … so help me …" Wilson looked not so much angry as crestfallen.

"Yeah? What?" House's tone of voice seemed a little more mellow than usual, and Wilson watched in amazement as his friend's face smooshed around into an almost-grin, eyes sparkling in a glimpse of rare good humor.

Wilson stopped in his tracks to stare at the man while his own eyes widened and a smile spread on his features in return. "And to what do I owe the small gleam of humanity I see on your face this morning, if I may ask?"

"You look goofy, that's all … and sometimes 'goofy' is good …

"But I was looking for a friend of mine … and Dagwood Bumstead shows up instead! Maybe we should go to Arizona more often … or never. I haven't decided which. But I meant it when I said you should wash that stuff out of your hair. Go on … git! I need to tie my shoes and get some stuff together. Go!"

Wilson's eyes dropped to House's dragging shoelaces just as House knew they would. Wilson opened his mouth to speak. (Just as House knew he would). "No! I can do it myself, Mother. You'd think I was crippled or something."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but did not comment further. Sometimes he didn't take the bait after all. He walked to the bathroom, went in and closed the door behind him.

House crossed to the couch and sank down. Gingerly he leaned over to tie his shoelaces. His leg had been calm this morning, and he hated doing anything that would disturb it. Now it was waking up, the familiar jabbing that surfaced immediately after he tied his laces and straightened his body. He rested for a moment, listening to the water running in the bath, waiting for the angry buzz to tame down in his thigh.

When Wilson came out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, auburn hair loose and blow-dried, and the wayward lock once again hanging almost to his right eyebrow, House looked up from the sofa. "Well well! If it isn't Dr. Wilson! What did you do with Dagwood?"

"Bite me, House!" James said, but he was smiling.

House stood, his grip on the cane tightening. "I need to pick up a pair of shoes like yours," he said, eyeing his friend's handsome loafers. "Step into 'em and march onward! No fuss, no hassle."

Wilson's smile disappeared. "You can't wear loafers! Are you deliberately looking for an argument? Or did tying your shoes set off the fireworks?"

"No and no … in that order."

Wilson sighed. "It's only been three days, House. A bruise like the one you've got on your ass doesn't go away overnight."

"I know. Bruise, no bruise, same difference. I just needed something else to bitch about." He looked up, shrugged. "Are we about ready?"

"I think so. Where's your travel bag?"

"In the hallway. You passed it when you came in."

"Uh, okay. I guess we're ready then."

House pulled his best navy blue sport jacket from the back of his desk chair and shouldered into it. Actually, he didn't look much different now than he looked at work, except that the scruff was maybe a little shorter, his blue shirt was sort-of pressed and the wiry dark hair was almost meticulously combed. The blue jeans were old and worn and looked comfortable. House messed with the locks on the front door, then pocketed his keys.

"Off we go," he said, "into the wild blue yonder!"

Wilson grasped the handle of House's carry all and pulled it effortlessly behind him as they walked down the hall slowly, shoulder to shoulder, toward the elevator.

00000000

Princeton to Newark was only forty miles, give or take, and would consume about an hour, depending on traffic. Wilson had their luggage loaded in the trunk of the baby blue Avalon by 8:30 a.m., and their flight was scheduled to leave at 12:20, giving them a full four hours to find secure parking, check in and waste an hour or so going through security. He pulled in at their favorite fast food and each man ordered a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then they were off, aiming for the highway; next stop Newark's Liberty International Airport.

House hadn't said a word awhile back when Wilson climbed behind the wheel, eased the gearshift into drive and steered slowly out of the underground garage and into bright morning sunlight. James had agreed to let him drive the beautiful new car to the airport, but that had been before he'd learned the full story of the slip in the shower and the damage to his friend's hip. Gregg wasn't going to be driving anything anywhere for probably another week. He'd positioned himself in the passenger seat in sullen silence, and at that moment his leg didn't bother him. He'd leaned back after finishing his coffee and sandwich and stared blankly into the rush of traffic outside the window.

People were heading for work at this hour, and traffic was heavy. He was very aware of Wilson's solicitous glances in his direction, and the man's disturbing habit of searching his face for any sign of pain. But Wilson would be Wilson, and couldn't help his concern any more than he could help breathing. House knew when to shut up and let James alone, just as Wilson knew when to shut up and let House alone! House sighed and closed his eyes.

The absence of motion, combined with the click of Wilson's foot on the emergency brake, woke House at 11:15 a.m. They were in the airport's long-term parking lot and James Wilson was leaning into the steering wheel, tucking their parking stub under the sun visor, gazing into his face as though endeavoring to will House, with his eyes, to wake up.

House gazed back, instantly alert. "What??"

"You certainly had a nice snooze, didn't you?" Wilson responded. "You went out like a light."

"How could you tell?" House wasn't about to admit to anything.

"Because …" Wilson told him with a grin in his voice, "you snore like a chainsaw!"

"Well thanks, friend," Gregg snarked back, straightening in the seat with a wince. "I love you too!"

Wilson saw the pain reaction and chose to ignore it. "Yeah, I know …"

House ignored the last remark also, and added another jab of his own. "Took you a long time to get here." Silkily.

"Traffic sucked. It's Friday."

"And that's your only excuse?"

"The only one you're going to get!"

House stared out the windshield at the terminal in the distance. "Do you expect me to walk … all the way over there?"

"You really haven't flown in a long time, have you?"

House scowled. "No, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"I asked for a baggage shuttle when we stopped at the entry gate back there."

"Oh yeah? What's that? Like a grocery cart?"

"No, idiot. It's kinda like a golf cart. Airports use them for people who are … well … "

"You mean for cripples who can't walk all the way over to the terminals …"

Wilson sighed. It always ended up being about the leg. " … for cripples who can't walk to the terminals. You happy now?"

"No, not really. But sometimes one has to concede to the logic of the situation …"

"Don't start that 'Spock' bit with me!"

"Just trying to see if you were on your toes."

"I can get on my toes and stay there a lot better than you!" When he chose, Wilson could hand back the snark as good as he got.

The right side of House's mouth quirked upward where Wilson couldn't see it. "Oh, niiice …" he breathed.

Behind them a battery powered motor and the screech of brakes turned their attention to the rear. A small three-seater electric cart with a luggage rack in back, pulled behind the Avalon. The man in the driver's seat leaned forward as Wilson put his window down. "Guy at the gate sent me to follow your car. Wilson, right?"

James nodded and opened his door. "Yeah." He got out, jingling the car keys. "You stay put!" He warned House as he moved to the car's trunk and opened the lid.

House listened to what he was told in the same manner he usually did. He opened his door and got out, hopping for balance until he could get his cane positioned beside his right foot.

"Dammit!" Wilson snapped, hurrying around to the passenger side before Gregg went down on his behind. But his friend was all right, getting his bearings quickly, moving around to meet Wilson halfway, then pausing beside the open trunk lid to lean into the car and ease his weight off his leg.

The shuttle driver had just heaved the last of their luggage into the back of the little vehicle, and was turning around to check if anything was left. He'd fired a wary glance at Wilson when he'd hopped, able-bodied, out of the car. Then he spotted House, lame and in obvious pain. "Got a bad foot there, huh buddy?" he asked in an offhand manner, ready to help the man if he could.

"Yeah … something like that," House said tightly, doing a slow burn, but also doing his best not to make some snotty remark to someone who meant well. His peripheral vision landed on Wilson, who tensed perceptively when he heard the words: "bad foot", which he knew bugged the hell out of House every time people looked at him and made assumptions. Gregg, however, had handled the remark stoically, if not kindly, and he relaxed again, seeing House's chin lower to his chest to hide a frown into the front of his shirt.

They rode the shuttle all the way to the front door of the terminal building, where inside the door and close to the center of the huge room, a line of security guards checked luggage and IDs before letting anyone board any flight, or conversely, out of the terminal and onto the Streets of Newark. The shuttle driver and Wilson loaded their luggage onto a portable cart and they disembarked to await the security checks. He tipped the driver who, in turn, tipped his hat and drove off.

Wilson brought his attention back to House. "I was afraid of this," he grumbled. There were long lines of people waiting to be passed through the checkpoints. There were restless children running and twittering about, having no apparent respect for anything or anyone, some of them already coming dangerously close to running into Gregg's leg. "Stay with the luggage, House … please!" He finally said. "I'm going to ask for a wheelchair before you get hurt." He was gone before Gregg could protest.

House turned his body with his bad side leaning into the sheltered space below the cart's handle and hung on, using the cart for a crutch as much as guarding their bags within it. Adults milled around impatiently and children skittered back and forth, some whining and tearful and others pleading for treats and goodies they were unable to reach, since most of the concession stands were far beyond the security line.

House closed his eyes, planted his body and waited, impatient, but afraid to move.

_Never again!_

Two young boys, seven or eight years old, slammed into the side of the luggage cart exuberantly and jolted his hip until he grunted in pain and had to hop to regain his balance. He cracked his cane on the handle of the cart and shouted: "Stop that! Now!" The boys both blinked up at him, owlishly, and then ran down the line to their parents. House thought for a moment that the people closest to him were going to break into applause. He leaned into the cart again, grim-faced and angry.

By the time Wilson came back with an attendant and a wheelchair, the line had moved up, and House's expression was homicidal. The attendant was an older woman with an ample body and a kind face, who instantly saw Gregg's distress and held the chair firmly with both hands while Wilson eased House slowly backward and down. Wilson pressed a ten-dollar bill into the woman's hand and closed his hand around hers. "I can't thank you enough for this," he said.

She nodded with a look of concern at the pale face of the silent man in the wheelchair. "You're more than welcome, sir," she said. "Will he be all right, do you think?"

"He'll be fine," Wilson told her. "He just needed to get off his feet."

She nodded once more, and then turned apologetically. "I need to get back. It's fierce around here today. You can leave the chair with the people at the ticket counter when you board. Someone will pick it up. Have a good flight."

By the time Wilson turned to respond, she was gone, melted into the crowd. House was tight-lipped and pale. Wilson raised the leg rest it as far as it would go, and gently picked up Gregg's leg, positioning it on top as comfortably as possible. "Okay?"

House nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

It was nearly 11:30 a.m. before they were finally released to board the plane. Wilson pushed the luggage cart, and House propelled himself in the wheelchair. He was quite adept at it, having had plenty of experience. They turned the luggage cart over to the people behind the airline counter for processing, and Wilson presented their tickets. "You will need to leave the wheelchair here when you board," said the girl behind the ticket counter.

Wilson stepped closer in an effort to block House's line of vision. He leaned far over the counter and spoke to the girl in a conspiratorial voice. "My colleague," he said softly, pointing in House's direction, "is disabled and in chronic pain. He is in need of a way to prop up his leg. I'd like him to remain seated until then."

The girl frowned, then nodded in confusion, not understanding what chronic pain was in the first place, and not giving a damn in the second place. She waved him off dismissively. "Yes sir … whatever."

House eased himself out of the chair with Wilson's assistance when they were ready to board. Other people on the flight were gathering in the meantime, and the portable ramp to the body of the plane was already in place. Conversation swelled around them as their flight mates moved closer to join the queue waiting to get on the plane at last. The attendant began his pre-board announcements, summoning anyone who might need assistance. They moved up, walking onto the ramp when a flurry of commotion behind them turned their attention backward. Wilson, close at House's elbow, grasped his friend's arm protectively as he stopped to find out what the excitement was about.

A young family; man, woman, two young boys, were hurrying forward together, laughing, having a grand time and approaching fast along the side of the queue. The attendant stepped in their direction to issue a warning, but they paid him no attention, barreling around him toward the ramp's entrance. Some of the other passengers had already disappeared beyond, but they ran headlong onto the end of the ramp, which rolled under the weight of their combined bodies, throwing House and Wilson dangerously close to the sides of the ramp.

Wilson turned angrily. House had encountered these kids before, and this time, the pain they caused made him angry. He raised his cane above his head with a growl at their lack of consideration.

"_Damn you! Haven't any of you been taught any manners at all!"_

Someone standing behind him plucked the cane out of his grasp. The attendant stood there looking menacing, his anger directed, not at House, but at the undisciplined family, which suddenly crashed to a stop, almost on top of one another, finally realizing the catastrophe they had nearly caused.

"That will be quite enough! All of you!" He brandished the cane in the air much in the same manner as House had done, except this man's actions were official. People at the head of the queue scurried to claim their seats, and the angry attendant squared away in front of the people still standing there. "I have seldom seen such disregard for people's safety in all the years I have been with this airline!" He thundered. He indicated Gregory House.

"This man is disabled," he continued angrily. "You could have hurt him badly. There is no excuse for this type of behavior from people who are all certainly old enough to know better. I want you to go to your seats and stay there! Any further incidents such as this, and I will have all of you put off this flight."

The chastened family moved quickly with their heads down, to their seats in coach, turning left at the end of the ramp.

The attendant turned back to House. "I understand your alarm, sir, and I can't blame you for being angry with this stupidity. I sincerely hope they did not injure you, and I apologize in behalf of the airline if they did."

Gregg dipped his head quickly, needing to sit down and get away from the weight of so many pairs of eyes upon him and his instability. "I'm fine," he assured the man in a low voice.

The attendant smiled nervously and handed back the cane. "Please, sir, the next time … just yell for one of the attendants. You looked angry enough to bash a couple of heads together. But if any heads are gonna get bashed around here, kindly let us do the bashing!" He offered a tentative smile and looked uncomfortably at House's foot, barely touching the floor of the plane, and at Wilson, close by his side. He made the same mistake as the shuttle driver, causing both men to cringe inwardly. "I'm so sorry. I hope your foot is all right." He returned the cane to House's hands in further apology.

"I'm fine!" Gregg repeated with gnashing teeth.

Beside him, Wilson clamped his mouth shut against the smile he could feel roiling upward from his shoe soles.

The big U. S. Air 737 was brightly lit before takeoff, and they found their seats quickly … three of them in a row … close to the left of the door in the business section. House looked across at Wilson suspiciously as Wilson slid across the wide expanse and settled into the window seat. "You bought _three _seats???" He hissed incredulously. "Why?"

Wilson turned an innocent look upon his colleague, playing it for everything it was worth. "All I did was ask for seats where there was an empty one between us. You needed to prop up your leg, and it's five damn hours to Phoenix!" He shrugged. "I did not, however, realize that I would be sharing a row of seats with a terrorist of small children!" He grinned in a disarming manner and indicated the aisle seat. "Anyhow, I didn't have to buy it. It was vacant. For heaven's sake, sit down!"

House rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, then lowered himself with extreme care. He was not immune to Wilson's goofy little smiles, but Wilson would never find that out from him. "You really think you get to be my mother today, don't you?"

It was another one of his vague ways of saying 'thank you'.

00000000

24


	4. Chapter 4

- Chapter 4 -

"The Dark Underbelly"

They sped across the desert a lot faster than the old truck could safely handle, but that was the least of their worries. With the pale moon slowly coming into view, Tavon Greene, accomplished computer hacker, finally realized they were all in deep shit! The only person who could cash in on this deal was out like a light beside him, completely incapacitated, and didn't look to come out of it anytime soon.

Slumped in the passenger seat, head bouncing off the opposite door, Jose Suarez looked more dead than alive, and this distressed Tavon, mainly because Jose was the boss, and he certainly looked "un-boss-like" at the moment.

The old Dodge Ram pickup truck in which they were riding, hit a pothole and the four men hanging on for their lives back in the hard, rusty bed, voiced their discontent loudly. "Fucking Navajo pain in the ass!" Randall Kurtz cursed. "Don't you savages know how to fix the damn roads?" Randall was a handsome man, but hard. He dressed like a cowboy, but didn't want to be called a cowboy. He'd long decided he was the toughest hombre in this group of "experts" because he was a gun expert with deadly aim, and nobody had better forget it!

Hosteen Tull, a tall, slender Navajo Indian, gave Kurtz a sour look and met the other man's accusing eyes sullenly. Hosteen was beginning to get sick and tired of Kurtz's insults aimed in his direction, and he clenched his fists to hold back the retort forming in his throat.

The mess they found themselves in right now had been entirely Kurtz's doing. Stubborn, arrogant and unwilling to bear any sort of criticism, Kurtz had screwed up royally, and Hosteen was certain that the price they would pay for the cowboy's shortsightedness was only beginning.

Getting inside the walls of the high tech corporation had been a breeze, hacking their system and stealing the program, even easier. It was getting out of there that caused the problem. Jeffries had panicked and left two innocent men dead, and now their asses were grass if they didn't make tracks out of Flagstaff, Arizona pronto. And it was all Kurtz's fault!

ONE WEEK EARLIER:

Five diverse men slouched, in varying degrees of alertness, around an old wooden table located in a hazy back room of an abandoned warehouse on the north side of Flagstaff. Mark Lansa, a tall hard-boned Hopi Indian, stood against a wall smoking a cigarette and glancing about suspiciously at the others present in the room. He did not trust any of them, and with good reason. Erik Jeffries, shave-headed and stocky, tattooed and metal-bedecked, sat on the floor against the same wall, polishing a chrome-barreled handgun that already looked cleaner than anything Lansa had ever owned in his life. Jeffries studiously ignored everyone else, and his body language shouted: "Keep out!"

The two computer hackers, Tavon Greene, dark-skinned, dredlocked, and handsome beyond measure, and Tull the Navajo, were sitting together across the table, hunched over a laptop, talking computer jargon in hushed tones that would have sailed right over the heads of the others, if they'd been able to hear the exchange. Which they hadn't!

One man was sleeping, or studiously pretending to be, greasy Stetson pulled forward over his eyes. Randall Kurtz, the annoying, foul-mouthed Texan, was snoring softly, but jumped like a kicked mongrel when the large door at the front of the warehouse burst open with a hollow thump and screeched back on its hinges to hit the inside wall.

The Boss was here!

Jose Suarez didn't look like much. He was totally unimpressive, which was the way he liked it. He was older than the rest of them, with a skinny body, always attired in dark clothing. He had steely blue eyes and long gray hair pulled back and woven into a braid, which hung nearly to the middle of his back. He reminded them all of Willy Nelson, but he had neither a gravelly singing voice, nor a battered old guitar; only a steel-trap mind and a thousand ways to use it that had the potential to make them all very rich. He commanded respect from the group gathered there to the extent that they all came to grudging attention when he walked in.

"Well, _hola_, boys!" He greeted them with a whiskery smile and took a seat at the table. Those not already seated, joined him. "I got us a nice easy one … big payoff. This rich _gringo_ I know needs us to steal a computer program that doesn't even have a practical use yet. It's just sitting there under the Navy's nose. Nobody will even miss it … if we cover our tracks." He paused a moment and looked pointedly at Hosteen Tull. "That is, if Hoss here can get you guys into the building … and_ if_ you, Kurtz, can disable their security system …"

Jose shifted his gaze to the second hacker and the cowboy, and received a couple of curt nods in return. "All right! It's a 'go' then." He placed a thick sheaf of papers on the table with a whack. "Here's what ya need to get started. You've got a week to research and prepare. The name of the outfit is 'Soon Chang Corporation' and it's over on South Garfield. We get ready and go in next Friday!"

With a single nod to the other men in the room, Suarez stood up from the table, scraping his chair back. He left as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived.

"That was sure-as-hell quick!" Jeffries muttered under his breath.

00000000

The week passed in a flurry of excited activity and preparation. The plans were studied and precisely laid out well ahead of the deadline. Everything they would need was packed into an old, stolen and anonymous white Chevy van with stolen license and registration. They were well on their way to the secure compound where the Navy's "orphan" program was housed. Arriving in the parking lot just outside the perimeter fence, Jose Suarez turned around in the driver's seat and faced the rest of his team.

"You get in there … you grab the program, plant the decoy, and get out!" He looked to Hosteen in particular. "No farting around looking for side projects!" He grinned. "This is going to be a big payoff, and _nobody_ needs to get greedy!"

Five heads nodded agreement. They were all business now, and they needed to be able to depend on the skills of each other.

"All right! Hosteen, Randall, Tavon and Mark; you're going in. Erik will be guarding the door and provide a distraction if … God forbid! … _anything_ looks like it's going south! The rendezvous point is the big cement block garage in the north parking lot outside the perimeter. Got it?"

Five heads nodded silently.

"Good. Go!"

Five diverse men exited the van and approached the perimeter fence boldly. Tavon was last out, lugging the laptop case by his side. Hosteen led the group, walking tall as they approached the security gate. Tavon hoped their source for the counterfeit I.D. badges had been reliable.

When they all passed through the gate with no problem, however, without even an inkling of suspicion, he couldn't hold back a sigh of relief. Tavon had been in this racket most of his life, but he was always overly careful, mindful of his family back in L.A. They didn't need to know he earned his living as a thief!

"Hey Greene! Get your ass in gear! I don't wanna be here any longer than I have to," Randall Kurtz whispered loudly in his ear. Tavon suppressed a shudder as the smell of stale smoke and stale alcohol wafted over from the sullen Texan.

"You wanna hack into the closed network then?" He asked with a smirk, knowing that ninety per cent of anything he said would go right over the head of the thick-skulled Kurtz. "I'll walk at my own pace, thanks."

Randall scoffed, but turned on his heel and trotted forward to bother Hosteen Tull, Tavon's brother hacker.

_Christ! Cowboys and Indians!_

Tavon stared at their backs, finding it a bit comical that both of them would shed those monikers if they could. Hosteen hated his Navajo heritage at least as much as Kurtz despised his cowboy image. Tavon had more respect for Hosteen, however. Tull had at least gone to college to study computer technology. The only thing Kurtz was good for, Tavon theorized, was shooting anything that moved!

"Hey Kurtz! Should we be worried about those gun turrets?" Mark Lansa pointed upward to a fearsome array of heavy artillery aimed toward the parking lot and the perimeter fence surrounding it. They were halfway to their destination now, walking across the open space between the guard shack and the main building. Lansa was younger, less impressive and less talkative than the others, but his innate street smarts were keen and he was unusually observant.

"Nah … look closer! They're not even manned! See? They probably have to go to full alert inside the place in order to activate 'em. Not to worry."

Lansa was not so certain about that, but he conceded the point. Kurtz was supposed to know what he was doing when it came to artillery, so he let the question drop in the face of expert opinion as they came within shouting distance of the main entrance.

Tavon heard the Hopi mutter something in his native tongue, and smiled to himself. He had had a few questions also, but if Kurtz said the weapons were harmless as they stood, then he would go along with it.

They all flashed their IDs again at the door, and were again granted access. "This is easier than I thought it would be!" Tavon mumbled to himself and looked over at Hosteen who looked decidedly triumphant. He'd been the one who had rigged up the ID badges on information bought at a high price from a disgruntled former employee. These big corporations seemed to have a glut of those! Tavon had to agree that Hosteen did very thorough work.

Tull worked his magic again, once they were inside the building. Withdrawing a small hand-held electronic device that looked a lot like an old Zippo lighter, he slid it across the keypad that locked the door to the computer room. After a few moments of concentrated maneuvering on his part, the door clicked open and they all entered with a few furtive backward glances.

The coast was clear, and now it was Tavon's turn.

He and Hosteen sat down at the computer console which was the only object occupying this windowless, scrupulously clean room. Getting a login screen, he entered a code that made the computer respond with an angry "_Beep!_"

"What the hell was that?" Mark hissed from behind them.

"Nothing. Just testing the waters before I decide to jump in head first!" Tavon replied curtly. He was the expert at this level, and he didn't need the peanut gallery asking stupid questions at that particular moment. Quickly, he keyed up another code, and the screen flashed a start-up menu.

"Hah! There!" He was in. Somehow, it seemed too simple. Opening up the hard drive, he found the access he'd been looking for. It was, after all, a target program that most people wouldn't even glance at twice.

He inserted CDs and quickly burned two copies of the thing: one for him, one for Suarez. Redundancy was important in this "business".

The rest of the plan was even easier. Hacking into something without being detected was difficult, sometimes impossible. But getting caught was no problem, even for the most unseasoned hackers.

Tavon entered the Defense Contract Folder and maneuvered his way through the pass codes and firewalls. After only a few more moments, he heard an external alarm start blaring. He smiled with conspiratorial satisfaction to his cohorts.

Mission accomplished!

00000000

Jose Suarez sat in the white van that housed all the team's equipment, and smoked a cigar in triumph. He'd been correct in trusting this team. They were the best. Everyone on this job had tricked up with him before. A twelve million dollar payoff was on the line this time, and Jose had left nothing to chance. Sighing contentedly, he flipped the switch on his radio transmitter, checking in on the progress of the job.

That was a mistake!

"Hah! There!" Tavon's voice crackled in the small receiver. Soon afterward, Jose heard the external alarm that signaled completion of the mission. He clicked on the laptop sitting on the counter before him and his eyes widened. He swore loudly.

Too late, he realized that not only had his radio transmitter triggered the external alarm, but had also armed the automated gun turrets, which were now rolling into motion, searching for intruders. He watched further, frozen in fear, as one of the big unmanned guns zeroed in with the van in its crosshairs. Suarez knew he had only moments to throw his shoulder into the door and explode out of the van before the big brace of artillery exploded the vehicle and everything in it.

Jose managed to leapfrog and then roll about twenty feet away from the doomed van when its fuel tank took a direct hit and the whole works exploded sky high. Suarez felt himself being thrown into the air by the concussion, but was helpless to prevent the hard landing on his far shoulder and the side of his head, sliding like a toboggan on ice. He moaned in pain when he hit, but the world faded to black around him. He folded downward like the empty robe of Obi Wan Kenobi.

At the same second Jose realized he had screwed up and his consciousness fled, Tavon Greene was coming to the same conclusion.

_Fail-safes!_

"Oh shit! The Boss!" He glanced frantically at Hosteen, who was still in the clean room with him as he was finishing up. "Fuck! We're _all_ fucked!" He raced from the room and almost ran into Randall.

"Automated gun turrets!" He screamed at the cowboy. "They're fucking _automated!_ You _asshole!_ And the radio signal alerted them where the damn van was _at!_ You just blew up the _boss!_"

Randall looked at him with his mouth slightly agape. Then he looked at Mark, and at the other two who came running past the computer room after him.

"Let's go! Now!" Randall snarled, trying to redeem himself somehow. Trying not to attract undue attention, the team walked quickly toward the building's exit with few problems, slipping past one security guard and distracting another by telling him someone had broken into the clean room. Other than those two men, the perimeter seemed to be deserted for the moment, and they ran. Most of the other workers must have been told there was a security breach, and were busy locking up their work.

When the team exited the building and headed hell-bent-for-leather toward the perimeter fence, Tavon knew that getting away from the compound was going to be a royal pain in the ass. With the security breach, the perimeter gate was swinging closed, and two security guards they hadn't seen before were standing like statues in front of the only possible exit.

Erik Jeffries abandoned his post at the entrance and strode briskly toward the guards, already knowing there was only one option. He did not hesitate. Two human bodies were denying them escape from a situation untenable for them all. He had one simple solution. He halted in front of the two suspicious guards who both had their hands on the butts of their guns.

Erik set his sweaty face into a grimace and thrust a thumb back over his shoulder in warning, throwing off their concentration for a fraction of a second. The delay gave him enough time to pull his shiny silver pistol and shoot both men between the eyes. They dropped like stones and lay bleeding out on the asphalt. Erik grabbed one side of the closing gate and held it steady as the others ran up.

"What the fuck are you all looking at?" He snarled at the others' wide-eyed faces. "Let's go find the boss and get the hell out of here!" His blunt words snapped the rest of the team back to awareness, and they took off in the direction where the smoking remains of the old white van curled lazily into the hot, dry air.

When they reached the scattered and smoldering debris, they were relieved to find that Suarez had managed to crawl far enough away to be, apparently, safe from the worst of the blast. Tavon knelt down and shook the man's shoulder lightly. "Hey! Boss!"

Jose shuddered and looked up in confusion. His eyes were glassy. "_Hijo de puta!"_

He climbed laboriously to his feet and a hand went to his head, rubbing thoughtfully. "Who was the _agilipollao_ who fucked this up??"

All eyes turned downward as Hosteen Tull spoke up. "We need to get the hell out of here before they come looking!"

Jose wobbled a bit, but nodded agreement. He gathered himself in determination and they all moved off rapidly in the direction of the street. From there it was a good fifteen-minute walk back to the old warehouse where they kept a second vehicle, an old Dodge pickup with room in the cab for two people. The others would have to ride in the bed.

Five minutes into the walk, which took them through back alleys and behind back-yard fences, Jose began to slow down. "Did you at least get the damned program?"

"Sure thing, Boss … no problem," Tavon replied with a smile. He wasn't the one who had fucked up. His part of the job had been executed with the precision that Tavon was known for. While they walked, he opened the laptop case and extracted the two discs, which he then handed across to Suarez.

Jose took them both, looked them over and inserted them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "These are worth millions." He was beginning to breathe heavily, and his steps turned uncertain, but he stumbled along and managed to keep up with the others.

They were quiet the rest of the way to the warehouse. Tavon didn't mention that he'd noticed, with a growing sense of disaster, that Jose's movements had turned to drunken stumbling. After being knocked on the head like that, a little dizziness was to be expected, he decided.

It was, however, cause for curses and alarm when Suarez suddenly wobbled and collapsed half a block before they reached the big door at the front of the warehouse. When nothing they tried to do for him made a difference, and the idea of taking him to a hospital for treatment was quickly discussed and rejected, the five fugitives dragged their leader to the front seat of the old truck and the other four scrambled into the back end. Angrily, Hosteen Tull backed out of the warehouse, locked the door behind them and took off for the area near the Indian Reservation many miles away where the contact was supposed to be waiting with all that … wonderful reward.

Somewhere within the barren, hundreds of miles of tumbleweeds, mesquite and desert heat, someone with more money than brains would be waiting for them to make the drop.

Jose was the only man who knew who or where it was. But right now, Jose Suarez wasn't talking.

ONE HOUR LATER:

Randall Kurtz swore again, loudly, as the truck's worn suspension jolted hard when its tires hit another pothole. Suddenly the vehicle swerved to the left and the four men in the back grabbed metal with both hands to keep from careening into one another. Hosteen yelled back a quick apology from the cab.

"Been awhile since I've been out here," was his only response. A few minutes further, the truck's headlights jumped into the air again, and came down hard as it hit another pothole. A front axle snapped, dragging what was left of the front end around in a dusty circle on the hard-packed floor of the roadbed.

They cursed and swore and placed blame on each other and screamed and shouted until they all finally realized that the displays of testosterone weren't getting them anywhere. They weren't even beyond the far outskirts of Flagstaff.

The Dodge was dead. It lay like a beached whale at the edge of the desert, and that chunk of blunt reality necessitated a search for another mode of transportation. Fast!

Tavon took charge, and the others were happy to let him. He stood with hands in his pockets for a time, assessing the situation. Then he turned to Hosteen and indicated the disabled truck with a sweep of his hand. Jose Suarez was still inside, leaning against the passenger-side door, unconscious with some unknown head injury. They had to get him somewhere isolated until they could find help. Their scheme was useless without the things he had stored inside his head, and right now that was top priority for all of them. That … and a vehicle serviceable enough to replace the ruined Dodge!

"Hosteen, you stay with the boss. The rest of us will go have a look around. There are some isolated houses out here, and one of them must have a car or something we can sneak out with and bring back here. Sit tight, and we'll get back as soon as we can. We can't give up on this now. There's too much at stake … as well as all of our asses! We murdered two people, and the 'powers that be' tend to look down on that." He turned in a circle to encompass the other three who stood around looking pissed. "You guys ready? Looks like we got another job to do. Let's go!"

Hosteen stood and watched as the four of them faded from sight in the moonlight.

It was going to be a long night. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the old truck.

00000000

32


	5. Chapter 5

- Chapter 5 –

"Adventures in Flying"

The seat belt sign was on and two flight attendants were cruising the aisles, making sure everyone was strapped in. The pickup in acceleration of the jet engines was increasing in volume and pitch, and even the passenger seats seemed to vibrate with the eagerness of this big bird to fling itself into the sky.

The 737 crept forward; inching its way around on the tarmac, straining under its own awesome power to the point that it was obvious the pilot had a thunderous beast barely leashed beneath his hands. Then they were on the runway, moving, gaining speed every second and still accelerating. The attendants were strapped into their jumpseats for takeoff, and suddenly they weren't on the ground anymore. The aircraft's nose was pointed toward heaven.

Wilson felt his body beginning to press tighter and tighter against the back of his seat as the roaring engines propelled them almost straight up toward the stratosphere, trapping every one of them in time and space within the vortex of air currents, velocity and wind shear. Wilson was a frequent flyer, and had become accustomed to letting his body ride with these first few seconds of G-force, like a kid on a roller coaster.

James turned his head a little to the left, checking to see how House was making out, and had to suppress a smile at the look on his friend's raw-boned face. Gregg's eyes were closed, barely below the act of clenching, and his mouth was a thin crease above jaws knotted to tooth-grinding tension. The knuckles of both hands were paled on the armrests of his seat.

When the plane leveled off into normal flight, Wilson shifted his gaze out the port window where nothing was really visible, except for the expanse of wing. It would not do for House to catch him grinning. After a few moments he looked over to his left again, to find his friend squirming in his seat, expelling a long-held breath through his teeth, his eyes wide with the aftermath of acceleration. House was definitely _not_ a frequent flyer!

Wilson plastered his most endearing smile across his face and looked across at the other man. "Exhilarating, wasn't it?"

House glared at him, not sure whether he was being put on. "Yeah," he growled. "Damn near as exciting as a wet fart!"

Wilson snickered to himself. It was going to be an interesting flight.

Over the bulkhead in front of them, the seat belt sign winked off, and as though on cue, both attendants unbuckled and got up from their seats, disappearing forward. The voice of the pilot came over the loud speaker languidly:

"This is the Captain speaking. We are on course and on schedule for Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, and touch down should commence about 4:13 p.m., Mountain Time. Those of you debarking in Phoenix might want to set your watches accordingly. Weather reports indicate another beautiful day in Arizona: partly cloudy skies with winds at three-to-five knots. Ground temperature peaking at 3:00 p.m. today, will be in the balmy mid-to-high nineties. Enjoy your stay and have a good flight. Captain out."

House looked across at Wilson, his glare hardening to indignation as he fumbled to unfasten his seat belt. "Did he say 'balmy'? As in 'soft and soothing'? Or as in 'goofy and eccentric'? If 'mid-to-upper nineties' is _balmy_, I wonder what the hell he thinks is hot? The surface of Mercury?"

Wilson chuckled, ready to nip this rant in the bud. "I would say the definition of 'hot', right this moment, House, would be the inside of your head. You could at least wait until we're up to full altitude before you find multiple reasons to blow your stack. That way you won't be contributing further to the depletion of the ozone layer …"

House's eyebrows went up. He expelled a half-snort through his nose and leaned his head back against the seat again. "Good one, Wilson. Good one. So. When we debark in balmy Phoenix, what's our next move?"

"Sonny Tse will pick us up at the airport. He knows about what time we land, and the time I told him to be there, pretty much corresponds with what the pilot just said. Don't forget we're going back two hours in time."

House frowned. "I know that, Einstein … I was listening!"

"Hmmm … could'a fooled me. I would have thought the only word you heard was 'balmy'."

"He got a decent car?" Gregg was ignoring him. Nothing new.

"Huh?"

"Sonny … your doctor friend … does he have a car with good air conditioning?"

"I don't know. Didn't think to ask, but I would imagine so, since it tends to get a little warm in that part of the country. I remember he used to have a big old '64 International Travelall on campus when we were in med school. We'd pile a bunch of people in it, put all the windows down and go! It didn't have A/C though, but that was years ago. I'm assuming he's updated since then. I hope so, anyway." He looked across at House again, and smiled at his friend's perpetually wrinkled nose.

"I'm hungry."

"You're what? We had breakfast!"

"I know, but I'm hungry again. And I gotta pee."

"The lavs are right over there." Wilson pointed. "Just behind the attendants' station."

House nodded. "Okay." He clasped his cane in a death grip. "Be back."

Wilson watched him slide out of his seat and hitch painfully toward the front of the plane. For a moment, he debated the wisdom of talking Gregg into accompanying him on this excursion. He knew House had difficulty dealing with things unfamiliar. He needed creature comforts and privacy, for obvious reasons, none of which he could probably expect in the desert. Their accommodations were as yet an unknown. Wilson was already aware the reservation hospital had once been part of an old military installation. It was a multi-floor brick monstrosity with only one central elevator. Its basic air conditioning was still provided by small, individual window units. Central air was an unknown quantity at this facility, and it was probably still a far-off dream. The hospital itself was full of steep staircases, dogleg hallways and sharp corners, which could easily trap a cane and throw its owner off balance at best, and painfully to the floor at worst.

It hadn't been hard to talk House into going along on the trip, however, once House ran out of excuses and stopped whining about why he couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't be able to go. His crippled leg was always first and foremost on the list of "yeah, buts."

Though Wilson was well aware of his caution in getting around, his inability to stand for any length of time, and the nagging pain he had to contend with, sometimes one just had to push the envelope for all it was worth and drag his stubborn ass along. Wilson had always been able to cajole him into doing things he would normally avoid like the plague.

Of late, he'd challenged House more and more to try things he never thought he could do, and go places he never wanted to go. His list of excuses was getting a little shorter, even though the later repayment in discomfort was getting a little longer. But House was beginning to extend his limits and sometimes even enjoy the things Wilson talked him into doing.

House was also learning to trust and let down his guard with Wilson, relaxing a bit more and allowing his friend to enter beyond the rigid outer shield of his stubborn "I'm fine!" attitude. Wilson discovered that he no longer had to pry at that armor plating, and was sometimes allowed to know about some of the pain that Gregg absolutely refused to reveal to anyone else.

Now, if he could only break into that other armor-plated fortress that was House's heart, and learn the reason for his deeply buried terror of amputation of the crippled leg, Gregg might be able to purge some of the bitterness that still held him back from enjoying life again, loving again. But that might not be possible, and Wilson knew that even if things remained as they were now, he would still stay by the side of this man as long as House would have him.

A faint waver in the cabin's air, and a vibration from the aisle seat brought Wilson out of his meandering thoughts to look up as House leaned in to sit down again. The cane came in first, plopping onto the empty seat between them, then Gregg clamped his hand onto the top edge of the seat in front of him and began to slide in quietly. The plane chose that moment to hit an area of turbulence, and dipped abruptly. The smooth fabric of the seat between House's fingers slid out of his grasp, and suddenly he was listing sideways, landing heavily against the armrest on the sore hip, his bad leg taking a glancing blow from the edge of the seat. He sprawled with a gasp of pain, half in and half out of the seat.

Wilson lunged with a grunt of alarm, pulling up beneath Gregg's right arm to steady him before he slid onto the deck. From across the aisle, a young man and woman came out of their seats quickly and hurried across to assist. Together the three of them got him turned and settled, grimacing, grasping his thigh with both hands. Within seconds, a flight attendant approached and knelt in the aisle to offer help. She had seen him come on board, watched helplessly when he'd been jostled by the unruly boys, observed his friend's hand on his arm and saw him limp painfully to his seat. She was an R.N. and she understood his difficulty.

"I'll be right back." 

The young man and woman had moved back to their seats, but both still watched with worried expressions. Gregg grunted a "thank you" through clenched teeth, even as he tried to reassure Wilson that he was "fine" and it was okay for him to sit down too. Wilson did so, but moved into the empty seat and bent his body across Gregg's in support. "Easy," he said, mostly because there seemed to be nothing else he could say. "Lean into me. I've got you."

House looked up at Wilson with wounded eyes. A trace of bitter anger edged the growl in his voice. "See what I mean? It just happens."

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, I know. When you're not looking."

At the aisle seat, the attendant returned with a bag of ice in one hand and a fat pillow in the other. "Sir, have your friend lower your arm rest so you can elevate your leg. I have a bag of ice and a towel to wrap around it, and if there's anything else I can get you, please let me know."

Wilson had already snapped back the locking mechanism for the armrest and lowered it to the floor between the seats. House did not protest while they moved his body carefully around and Wilson raised his leg, gently placing the pillow beneath it and the cushioned ice bag against the infarction site. He could not begin to count the number of times he had done this for House over the years. He looked up into the attendant's kind, freckled face. "Thank you very much," he said. "And if he could speak right now, my colleague would also thank you very much."

"You're so welcome. Please call me if there's anything else I can do to help." She backed away and withdrew, and things calmed down again.

Wilson untied House's right shoe and drew it off his friend's foot. He put his fingers on the pressure points of House's foot and gently began to massage. House groaned and leaned his head to the side against the back of the seat. Wilson would have bet that he had already taken a Vicodin, maybe two of them, while he had been in the lav.

James closed his eyes and sighed to himself. Impeccable timing! Within ten minutes, House was asleep. Wilson continued to knead the long thin foot. After a time his hands slipped down toward his lap, and Wilson slept too.

00000000

They were over Missouri when movement beneath his hand brought Wilson back to wakefulness. He looked across groggily and met blue eyes scrutinizing him with grave intent. "House?"

"Sorry, Wilson, I was trying not to wake you."

Wilson's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "There's something wrong with my hearing," he said in a sleep-clogged voice. "I thought I heard you say you were … sorry about something." He looked down at his hand, still curled around House's foot, and lifted it out of the way.

House snorted. "Don't get used to it! I just wanted my foot back so I could move. Funny though … it doesn't seem to _want_ to move, even when you don't have it in a vise."

Wilson's eyes widened momentarily, but then returned to normal when Gregg snarked at him again. "Oh relax! It won't move because it's asleep. How long was I out?" He busied himself with the towel-wrapped ice bag, mostly melted now, and set it aside at the edge of the middle seat. He did not, however, attempt to move his leg off the pillow.

Wilson looked at his watch, still blinking sleep from his eyes. "I have 2:20 p.m. We should be landing in another two hours." He straightened in his seat and looked across at his friend more closely. "You okay? And I don't want a load of bullshit."

House shrugged. "Feels better than it did when I landed on my ass awhile ago."

"That answer sucks!" Wilson hissed.

"Well, whaddaya want me to say? I don't think I'll be doing any jogging soon, but I'm pretty sure it'll let me walk when I have to. Is that what you're looking for?"

"That's not a bad answer … considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering who did the answering." James lifted an eyebrow.

"Wilson …" A pause, thinking. "I'm okay … okay? Like I told you the other night, I'm clumsy when it hurts. Stuff happens."

Wilson did not look convinced.

House sighed and sat up straighter. "Would you please put my shoe back on?"

Wilson bent to the task and slid the fancy sneaker over House's heel and tied the laces loosely. "You're a little swollen."

"And you're a worry wart." Under his breath he muttered: "Damn! You'd have a heart attack if you knew about all the other little disasters I never tell you about!"

"What?"

"Nothing." House used both hands to lift his leg away from the pillow and put his foot back on the deck. He was still straightening his clothing when the throb crept back to his thigh. He bit down on his lip did not let it show.

Within another fifteen minutes, their pretty, freckle-faced flight attendant and her sidekick came down the aisle with stainless steel carts full of drinks: sodas, juices, bottled water, coffee and tea. Busy handing out drinks of all kinds, she paused a moment to kneel by House's side. "How are you doing?" She asked softly, placing her hand for a moment on top of his.

Gregg dropped his head in momentary embarrassment, but turned his hand palm up to clasp hers warmly. "I'm fine. Really. What you did … helped. Thanks."

Across from him, James Wilson sat with his mouth open, having a small revelation. Nice manners from Gregory House. Twice in the same day! House noticed, but ignored him, smugness written in deep creases across his tall forehead.

They each chose a large bottle of water before she moved on down the aisle, then sat and savored them. Wilson said nothing a few minutes later when House swallowed another Vicodin. His only comment came in the form of worried brown eyes, which swept his friend's face with concern. "I'm _fine!_" House assured him. He predicated the statement by thrusting his bottle of water into Wilson's hand to hold for him while he grasped his leg once again and lifted it back onto the pillow. Silence dropped like a stone between them. He took his water bottle back and tipped it up in a long swig.

Wilson muttered something unintelligible and did the same.

"What's Sonny Tse got by way of staff?" House asked out of the blue.

Wilson stared, struggling to keep up with Gregg's constantly churning mind. "Staff?" He repeated dumbly. "Unhh … Really, House, I don't know. I only ever met two of them. I suppose there are lots of others, but I don't know them. Not yet, anyway."

"Tell me about 'em," House insisted. "Start with Sonny." His head went forward, steely gaze boring into Wilson's with almost feverish intensity.

_He's hurting! _ Wilson thought. _Looking for a diversion to deflect attention away from it … thinks he's kidding me. Okay, friend … diversion you want, diversion you get!_

Wilson thought for a moment; then he too leaned forward and began to tell his friend about another friend from a long time ago. "Sonny's my age, and he's a full-blooded Navajo. He's a little taller than me, probably closer to your height. The last time I saw him, he had this thick, straight black hair all the way down the middle of his back. He's a thoracic surgeon now, probably a good one. The last time we met, he was still doing the last year of his residency, and I was about halfway into my oncology certification. He's also qualified as a Medicine Man with the Navajo Nation: a 'Singer'."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sonny is a Singer. They have things called 'Ways' … chants and other stuff I don't remember. It's all about getting in tune with the supernatural … the Spirit World. I never really understood it, but Sonny loved to talk about it. He used to tell me he had such a bad attitude as a kid … but then he began to observe the wildness in the kids on the reservation … and the little ones born out of wedlock … and the drugs … and it turned him around. Now he's a doctor, and he runs this beat-up hospital and keeps it afloat somehow. But he needs help … and that's why we're going.

"How's he set for hardware? Instruments? The hi-tech stuff?"

"I really don't know. He tells me all their equipment is older, but it's in good shape and they take good care of it. They're government subsidized, of course, but that alone just doesn't begin to fill the bill. That's another reason we're going. Find them some funding."

"Any local support?"

"Some, maybe, but I doubt there's very much. It's a poor area. Millionaires in Phoenix live side by side with squalor all around them. The wealthy look down their noses at the poor. One more case of history repeating itself! Like you said the other day …mesquite, cactus, dust storms and tornados …"

"Uh huh." House's wheels were turning. Wilson could see it in his face. "So who else is out there? Anybody like … cool? Besides Sonny? And he doesn't count because he's your friend."

"Depends on your definition of 'cool'." Wilson was grinning.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," House grunted. "Like … anyone from the 'fair sex'? Any Indian maidens?"

"Sure. Lots of 'em."

"So tell me!"

"Well, I don't … uh … know any of them. Indian 'maidens' don't usually waste their time kissing up to me. This is my first time out here, you know."

"Didn't know there were Indian 'maidens' in New Jersey."

"House!"

"Women, Wilson. Females. Girls. Dames. Broads. Chicks. Barbie Dolls. Wenches … Get it now? Tell me about the _women!"_

"Oh. I thought … never mind. You mean the women on the hospital staff?"

"Duh …"

"The only two I ever met are Nikki and Rema … but neither of them are your type, House. Trust me!"

"Tell me anyway."

"So there's Nikki. Nicole Asdza …"

"Ash-da?"

"Rhymes with 'Mazda'."

"Oh. She one of the doctors?"

Wilson sighed. Gregg was looking for data he could dissemble and transmogrify within his nimble thought processes. Wilson knew he often did this as an exercise to take the edge off when he was unable to do it any other way. He'd often thought of it as: "Feed the Brain and Stop the Pain". Bring on the Endorphins! It would not work for him, simply because his mind was not as complicated as Gregg's, but it often worked for House. He took a deep breath and began again:

"Nikki's in her … I'd say middle fifties by now. She's a G. P. Has a gift of gab and a great smile. Sonny says she's kind of a 'Mother' figure to the rest of the staff, because she's the second oldest of them, and likes working with kids. She's Navajo, same as Sonny, and they're close friends, and have been for a lot of years. She's kinda … I guess you could say, 'second-in-command' at the hospital, and the arrangement just works. She plays a mean Native flute … beautiful stuff … both Navajo music and contemporary. I bet she could even give Galway a run for his money! There used to be an old upright piano in the dining room, Sonny told me. Maybe you and Nikki could do some jammin' in the evenings …"

"Maybe …" House was beginning to space out. Wilson could see it in his eyes.

Feed the brain and stop the pain … 

"And then there's Rema!"

"Who's Rema?"

"She could probably handle you with one hand tied behind her back."

"Think so, huh?"

"Yeah. She's an old broad … her words … got to be close to seventy. No bigger than a minute. Feisty, sarcastic, loud, judgmental, opinionated! Sound familiar? She's African American, originally from New York. Trauma surgeon … worked most of the ERs in the city. She calls it 'meatball surgery' like they did on MASH. But it burned her out. So she went back to school, and now she's an oncologist. To tell you the truth, I really wouldn't want to tangle with her."

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

Wilson lowered his head and smiled to himself. Gregory House was liable to get an earful from Rema Marks. "Well, for one thing," he replied sarcastically, "she would probably take one look at you and put you on crutches!"

House's eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline, indignation bristling from his pores. "Ya think so, huh?"

"Wouldn't put it past her." Wilson's smile was full-face now.

"Like you been trying to do for years?"

"Something like that …"

"And where has it got you?"

"Someday, you're not going to have a choice …"

"Someday … I'm going to be dead."

Wilson sighed, smile fading. "You asked."

"Yeah. I did. Gotta watch that stuff." Unconsciously his hand drifted to the inside of his leg, near the infarction site where the adductor muscles met the tendons just behind his knee.

Wilson watched. "Hurt?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" House snapped. He caught himself. "Sorry."

"It's okay. We should be landing soon and you can stomp around awhile. Limber up a little …"

His words were punctuated by a sudden shift in the timbre of jet engine sound. Vaguely subliminal, but noticeable, even if you weren't expecting it: almost like the feel of a Rolls Royce, effortlessly shifting gears.

House looked up and smiled crookedly. Their eyes met; Wilson's full of questions, House's soft with reassurance.

On the forward bulkhead, the _"FASTEN SEATBELTS"_ sign came on. House shifted his leg and placed his foot back onto the deck. They buckled in for the landing.

"This is the captain. We are coming in to Phoenix International. We will touch down in approximately twenty minutes. Please deplane with caution and consideration to the needs of your fellow passengers. My name is Evan Winslow, and it has been my pleasure to serve you. Please wait for the aircraft to come to a complete stop before disembarking. Enjoy your stay, and thank you for flying U. S. Air."

The plane taxied down the runway and turned onto the tarmac near the terminal. Its big engines shuddered like a dinosaur yawning. Then they screamed into shutdown mode and gradually dissipated to silence.

House and Wilson remained in their seats until the other passengers had filed out. A notable exception was the couple across the aisle, the two who had helped House into his seat. Both men knew they were hanging back to offer assistance if they could. House glared at them for a moment before relenting and welcoming the young man's arm reaching down to ease him to his feet.

He paused, motionless for a second or two as his body became used to standing straight again. His leg thudded, and for a moment he was not sure if it would hold his weight. The young man steadied him gently as Wilson moved into the aisle at his opposite side. Gregg grasped his cane and took a step. Putting the minimum amount of weight on the right side chased away part of the pain for a moment, and he moved forward cautiously. It held, and they all walked slowly to the plane's door where the cute, freckle-faced attendant was waiting.

"I've ordered a chair for you, sir, if you want it." At her side was a large, sturdy black wheelchair with padded seat and armrests.

Wilson closed his eyes in appreciation while House stared at the contraption with disdain.

It was Wilson, however, who got the last word. "Get in!"

House looked around. He was outnumbered four-to-one. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but eased backward gingerly and settled his weight into the chair. Wilson bent beside him and eased his legs onto the footrests.

Then it was over. They said their goodbyes, mumbled words of appreciation and shook a few hands. Within ten minutes Wilson was pushing the wheelchair briskly through the terminal in a quest for their luggage, which didn't take long. The carousel was nearly empty by the time they got to it, and Wilson lifted their bags onto a cart that looked like the twin of the one they had used in Newark. "Can you handle the chair by yourself?" Wilson asked unnecessarily.

House snorted up at him with a disgusted look. "Is the Pope Catholic?"

"Sorry I asked! Let's go."

"I'm still hungry."

"You're a royal pain!"

"My leg hurts."

"Your ass is going to hurt in a minute."

"Picking on the cripple again …"

"House …"

"Sorry, Mom."

They entered the waiting room and moved to a row of seats. Wilson barely had a chance to get seated for a moment to catch his breath. Across the room a tall dark man with cascading black hair, and a short dark woman in blue jeans, cowboy boots and tee shirt waved their arms high in the air and shouted Wilson's name.

"Jimmy!" The voice was deep baritone and full of excitement.

"James!" The accompanying voice was female, a husky contralto, just as excited as her companion.

Wilson stood up and searched the room, his eyes settling on the two people rushing toward them. Then he and Sonny Tse were embracing, pounding each other on the back, laughing, both talking at once. They broke apart and Wilson was embracing Nikki Asdza, his tall body nearly smothering her small stature. Wilson turned back to House, sitting patiently in the wheelchair for a change, looking up at them all from beneath beetled brows.

"I want you to meet my colleague and friend, Gregory House. Dr. House runs the Department of Diagnostics at Princeton, and has a reputation for getting to the root of the problem … curing his patients and driving his staff up the walls."

Both Asdza and Tse swung around and stuck their hands out for Gregg to shake. He looked from one to the other for a moment, then grinned up and extended both hands out to them. They clasped in greeting, briefly but firmly. "I'm … honored … to meet you both. I've certainly heard a lot about you from Wilson … all bad, of course."

Sonny grinned back. "Jim told me you'd say something like that, Dr. House. And let me tell you, your reputation has preceded you. We're honored to have you with us."

House wrinkled his nose, wondering why neither of them inquired why he'd shown up in a wheelchair. "Is this conference going to be a formal affair?"

"Oh Lord no!" Nikki exclaimed. "Couldn't be more informal. We're in the Arizona desert. Shorts and tee shirts, blue jeans and cowboy boots! No heels, no jewelry, no neckties … just comfort. That okay with you?"

"Right up my alley," House agreed. "So, call me 'Gregg' … please."

Wilson found himself speechless. He stared down at House with wide eyes, still unbelieving, but happy beyond measure. No one had mentioned the wheelchair, the cane, or the crippled leg. They didn't even seem to notice. House was gonna love this!

Together they departed the terminal and walked the short distance to the handicapped parking lot. Sonny and Wilson unloaded their luggage into the gaping back end of one of the biggest vehicles he and House had ever seen. It was a HumVee, big, black, void of chrome, and menacing. Nikki stood beside House's chair, keeping up an easy banter about the hospital and the local area, a description full of funny personal observations to which House listened intently, adding comments and questions of his own.

He left the wheelchair gingerly, getting his cane under him before trying to take a step. No one commented while he got his bearings and his balance. They just stood by in support while carrying on a light conversation until he was ready to board the vehicle. Nikki took the wheelchair and parked it by the curb while Wilson and Sonny assisted Gregg into the back of the Hummer.

Wilson seated himself across from House on the cushioned seat. By then, both their jackets were folded and laying across the space between them in accommodation for the hot, dry weather. Wilson was already in the process of removing his tie and rolling up his sleeves. Sonny drove the monster truck and Nikki sat sideways in the passenger seat so she could talk to the two men in the back while they traveled.

Sonny pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, and they were underway. He turned minutely in his seat and indicated his two passengers. "You know what? I'm starting to get a little hungry. We have a long drive ahead of us across the desert, so how about if we stop somewhere for a sandwich or something? Anybody in the mood for the drive-in at Burger King?"

Puzzled, he furrowed his brow and looked across at Nikki as the laughter of the two men in the back seat rang in his ears.

"Wow!" House exclaimed. "I'm gonna like this guy!"

00000000

47


	6. Chapter 6

- Chapter 6 –

"On the Way to the Rez …"

They ordered Whoppers, curly fries and milkshakes all around, and then sat in the parking lot to devour them. Sonny and Nikki pointed out places of interest in the area while Wilson and House sat in the back seat and rubbernecked the streets outside with growing interest.

Phoenix, what they could see of it from their positions in the back seat of the Hummer, was a dusty, terra-cotta-hued, hot and teeming city, bustling with multi-colored vehicles and multi-colored people. Cadillacs and BMWs, Toyotas, pickups and SUVs, buses and taxis, tractor-trailers and delivery vans competed with battered VW Beetles, rusty Chryslers and Fords and old Chevrolets for dominance of the streets. The shriek of screeching tires and bleating horns gave it the same grinding din as every other metropolitan area in America.

Conversation lulled for a time as food wrappers rustled, overdone fries clacked the bottoms of their cardboard sleeves, and everyone's mouths were too full to say anything intelligible. The Hummer's air conditioner kept them cool and its satellite radio played irritating disco music that set House's teeth on edge for its jarring assault on his ears. He would have suggested that Sonny tune into some progressive jazz, or at least the classics, except he opined it was a little too early in the acquaintance to delve into snark. It was not his vehicle, his business, or his right. And if nothing else, he still honored the right of eminent domain, even if it was just that of an oversized, overpriced, gas-guzzling metal giant with an awesome demeanor. The rumble in his leg kept time with the thump of the drek coming out of the speakers, not loudly, but insistently.

House finished the last bite of his whopper and siphoned the final drops of his strawberry milk shake. He sighed and decided he was now ready to endure the bone-crushing ride to the reservation where he could at least kick back and allow his body to unwind. When he was told there was still a 228-mile road trip ahead of them, House groaned.

_My bladder is gonna burst! I may have to hide behind_ _a damned cactus to take a pee. Getting in and out of this monster is gonna be a freakin' picnic!_

Fortunately, however, none of this did he say out loud, but judging from the sideways glance he received from Wilson, his friend was well aware of what he was thinking. Gregg wrinkled his nose, shrugged with his expressive eyebrows and ignored the man on his right.

Sonny gathered everyone's greasy lunch residue and stuffed it into the original take-out bag. Driving past the restaurant's refuse container, he lowered the window and tossed it in. Then they were back on the street, aiming for Route Seventeen north. "We'll head for Flagstaff and take a pit stop there, if that's okay with everybody. That's a little beyond our halfway point. Is everyone okay to go?"

There were murmurs of assent from his passengers, so he nodded and stepped on the gas. The city of Phoenix flowed past them in a multi-hued fresco of cement, brick, adobe and glass, traffic lights and police sirens, diesel engines and intermittent shouts and whistles that pummeled the senses with visual and auditory stimulus. Finally, they reached the outskirts of town and could really accelerate into the flow of northbound traffic. Sonny wove the oversize vehicle in and out of slower traffic until they had bullied their way into the passing lane. Then he really tramped it.

The Hummer responded like an eager racehorse, and they were soon outdistancing everything on the road. At 75mph he hit the cruise control and heaved a huge sigh. In the back seat, House's blue eyes were wide with sensory overload. He often drove fast himself, but this man's grace behind the wheel made him think of Indians on the warpath, and a dread of being one of the Palefaces. His gaze lingered on the mane of coal black hair cascading over the back of the front seat, and his breath caught in his throat. This Navajo meant business!

House even forgot his leg pain. This time, when he glanced over toward Wilson, he saw his own overwhelmed expression mirrored in James' face. And it was okay. He didn't feel so much like the only "wuss" anymore … not only were Wilson's eyes like saucers, but his grip on the hand bar beside the back door was a white-knuckled fist.

When House relaxed enough to look up, his gaze connected with that of Nikki, the gentle-faced Navajo woman whose black eyes were twinkling at him with humor and a hint of teasing. "Sonny drives fast," she told him unnecessarily. "You'll get used to it." Her smile widened.

He shook his head to clear it and gave a strangled half-laugh in return. "Not sure about that," he said. "In his letter to Wilson, he mentioned something about 'counting coup'. I'm hoping he wasn't talking about Palefaces from New Jersey!"

From the driver's seat came a hoot of laughter. Sonny was driving with an arm thrown over the back of the seat and an index finger resting lightly on the steering wheel. Gregg saw it and paled. "Hey, Man!" Sonny exclaimed, "I like my horses _big_!"

"Some things never change, eh?" This comment came from Wilson, whose body was still rigid in the seat, although he was consciously unwinding his fingers from around the sissy bar alongside the door. He looked across at House's face and frowned. "Gregg asked me during the flight if you had a decent car with air conditioning. I told him I supposed you'd upgraded from the old Travelall by now, but I don't think either of us expected you to be tooling around in a monster like this!"

House stared across the seat with a frown. Had Wilson just called him 'Gregg'? He _never_ did that. Hell! His best friend was going Native!

Sonny patted the steering wheel fondly before resuming the index-finger control mode. "This is our 'baby'," he boasted. "It was donated to the hospital by a Phoenix millionaire who gets the tax write-off, but won't let me reveal who it was that paid for it. He owns a dealership that sells these things, actually. It's used only for hospital business, which is okay with me. It's a great vehicle for the desert. Goes through anything, and carries a ton of supplies for the hospital. It comes in handy, especially since we buy most of our stuff in bulk to save a few bucks. You don't get the road dust through the ventilation system that you get with a lot of other cars. I swear by the thing. Sometimes I swear _at_ it too … but that's a whole other story."

They were leaving traffic far behind them now, accelerating even more, and heading into the desert where the horizon was a flat, straight line in the far distance, and man-made roadside structures were thinning. They would soon enter Monument Valley, a vista of sand and rock; of barren landscapes and towering monoliths that seemed to touch the sky; and where fierce plains tribes once warred with one another for dominion, and the sands ran red with Native blood.

Scrub brush, cactus and mesquite dotted the roadside and reached far afield on both sides of the Hummer as it skimmed along, virtually blurring the closer images and making a jumbled kaleidoscope of the further ones. Both House and Wilson stared at its red-tinted majesty and marveled at the desolation that seemed to hem the world in all around them. Here and there, an emaciated lone coyote lurked in the scrub or loped away into the desert grasses that undulated beneath hot desert winds. This place was part of a whole other world. "Surface of Mercury" indeed!

A hundred miles into the trip, Sonny reached down to the satellite radio unit and did something with a couple of the buttons. The disco disappeared and was replaced by the haunting strains of a flute, wailing majestically within soaring wafts of orchestral melancholy that made the vertebrae of House's spine compress with exquisite sorrow. Layers of violins took up the counterpoint, and the staccato rhythm of distant tom toms brought visions of craggy mountains and barren valleys. House took a deep breath and drew it into his lungs like the aroma of fresh-cut pine on a campfire; like musky desert nights curled up in a sleeping bag while the fire in the firepit reduced itself to embers, and he lay somewhere in the nether world between sleeping and waking.

House looked across and met Wilson's eyes, soft and dark with recognition of the sensual music, which flowed back over them. House was not familiar with the melody and frowned at James in question. Wilson smiled, and a tiny thrust of his head in Nikki's direction told House what he wanted to know. It was Nicole Asdza's native flute, softly accompanied by a full orchestra that you had to listen to with your soul, or you would never recognize the subtlety of the full instrumentation. The strains of it rose to the heights of the crags and then dipped to the floor of the desert, floating along like the waters of a stream in springtime, eager, wild and unrestrained. It ended on a minor note that House found himself following to its conclusion, and ended up leaning forward in the seat, wanting more.

Nikki looked back over her shoulder and smiled at the expressions on their faces as they sat with softened features. "That was the Phoenix Symphony," she said. "They allow me the honor of sitting in with them once in awhile. That was an original composition called _The Eagle_. Sometimes the music flows out of my flute like water from a spring, and at other times I can't get it to talk to me for weeks." She shrugged. "Did you like it?"

"Oh yes," Wilson said. "Ooh … yesss …"

House did not speak for a moment. He found himself staring at her pleasant face with admiration. "You have a gift," he said finally. "You have a gift … and I was lost for a minute at the center of it."

"Thank you, Gregg. Thank you very much." Her eyes returned a look of new respect that caused him to want to wallow in it. "And thank you, James, although I know you've heard that one before."

Sonny muted the machine and turned slightly in his seat to catch their attention. "Would you like to hear more of that CD?" He asked. "The song you just heard was my personal favorite, but there are many more. I'll play the whole thing if you'd like."

Behind him, the two voices echoed in unison. "Yes." And: "Please."

Sonny reached down again and the music continued, some with the orchestra dominating, some not, but all with the plaintive wail of the Native Flute. The miles flew by beneath the Hummer's big tires. Sonny drove, the others listened.

After a time, Gregg House turned in his seat and leaned his back against the big SUV's padded door. Carefully, he lifted his leg with his hands and placed it atop the two sport jackets folded beneath it. His eyes were closed, as he distracted himself with the music, but his pain was becoming relentless.

He had placed three Vicodin in the left front pocket of his jeans. He dug one out and took it dry. Nikki and James saw it and glanced at each other, but did not speak. Nikki frowned in question and Wilson thinned his mouth in an attempt to illustrate the depths of House's pain. Nikki shook her head in empathic understanding. She had patients who suffered chronic pain, and she understood the strain that their suffering often caused.

The Hummer flew along toward Flagstaff.

Another half hour brought the end of the CD. Sonny switched back to classical music. "Is everyone doing okay?" He asked in all innocence.

House's clipped, "Yeah," did not ring true. His chin was on his chest, eyes still closed, mouth thinned in a grimace. His right hand clenched his leg just above the knee. Wilson was watching him closely.

House knew he was there. Wilson did not know how, but he did. Gregg's right hand reached out and clamped Wilson's wrist in a vise-like grip.

"Stop the car! Pull over! Now!" The request was urgent, and hissed between his teeth with an urgency he almost never used.

Wilson leaned forward over the seat and grasped Sonny by the shoulder. "Pull over!" He said. "Now! Gregg is going to be sick!"

Sonny went down on the brake and ground to a halt at the side of the road, red dust roiling up over the back end and on past the hood. He jumped out and flung open the back door. Gregg House spilled into his arms recklessly. He was already gagging and trying to hold off until they were on the side of the road.

Sonny threw Gregg's right arm around his shoulder and half dragged, half carried him around the front of the Hummer. Wilson and Nikki Asdza exploded out of the car and ran forward. Wilson pulled House's left arm over his own shoulder and waited for the inevitable. Nikki stood by with a roll of paper towels, pulled from somewhere, in her hand.

Gregg lost the Whopper and the fries and the strawberry shake and the Vicodin, and whatever else had been in there with them. Maybe even back to the coffee and breakfast sandwiches they had eaten that morning on the way to Newark. It had been pure luck that the mess landed by the side of the road and not on Gregg himself or on anyone else. House slumped exhausted between the two men and panted with the effort to recover. "I'm sorry …"

Nikki moved around in front of him as Sonny and James backed him away from the splatter in the road. She wiped his forehead and eyes with a wad of towels, then dabbed at his mouth and chin with a fresh wad. Sonny looked at her and inclined his head toward the rear of the Hummer. "There should be some bottled water in the cooler in back. Check it out, will you, Nikki?"

She acknowledged with a tilt of her head and ran toward the back. They heard the hatch lift and a snap of brackets, and the lid dropped again. Nikki ran forward, unscrewing a bottle of Aquafina. She pulled off another length of paper towel, wet them down and held the cold wad to Gregg's forehead, then gently wiped the rest of his face again. He was struggling to stand, asking for his arm back from around Wilson's shoulder. The toe of his right sneaker wobbled drunkenly on the pavement.

"He had two bad experiences today," Wilson explained. "He got jostled twice by kids at the Newark airport, and then on the plane he took a spill into his seat and hit his leg on an armrest. I think that combination and the heat and the long ride in the car was a bit more than he was ready to handle."

As Wilson spoke, House was regaining strength. He squared his shoulders and attempted to remove his arm from around Sonny's sturdy back. But the Navajo held fast to his wrist. "Oh no you don't, Paleface," Sonny scolded. "Your cane's in the car, and from the look of you, you really don't want to try to walk without it. I strongly suggest you stay put and let us help you."

House turned his head and found himself nose to nose with the tall man. Sonny's dark eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was no arguing with the set look on his face. House blinked and scowled in his best intimidating manner. "I'm fine!"

Sonny muttered a word in Navajo under his breath that no one understood except Nikki. She chuckled low in her throat and placed a warm hand on House's cheek. "He not only drives fast, Gregg" she whispered close to his ear, "but he handles patients your size as though they were children. If I were you, I'd do as he says." She withdrew her hand and winked in his startled face, then stepped back. House followed her movements with wide eyes. He did not protest further.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked. He lingered close by Gregg's left side, ready to grasp his arm across his shoulders again.

The snark came back. Wilson was not surprised. House could not be polite for too long a time without serious consequences. "I got car sick," he whined. "I was hungry. I ate too fast, and I got car sick."

His attitude changed 180 degrees when he turned back to speak to Sonny. "I can be a total pain-in-the-ass. I'm sorry to have caused a mess and I …"

"You already apologized once. How many times are you going to repeat yourself? I understand. Severe pain often causes nausea. From now on, do me a favor though." He paused while the keen blue eyes shot question marks. "When you hurt this badly, please let someone know so we can do something for you. Will you?"

House hung his head. "I'd drive you nuts if I did that. It _often_ hurts this bad, and sometimes worse. If I told you every time I got a twinge, you'd soon be ready to put me out of my misery. I can't promise."

"Stubborn Paleface, aren't you?"

"Amen to that!" Wilson remarked, and House glared at him.

Nikki reached over to touch his face again, and he flinched. He was not used to this type of attention and it bothered him. "Do you feel well enough to go on?" She asked gently. "Or do you want to rest here a little longer?"

He smiled in spite of himself. "Uh … if I have to stand here much longer, I'll be feeling so good you'll have to scrape me up off the road."

She groaned. "Ooh …your leg!" She motioned Wilson to take Gregg's arm again. "Help him into the car!" She barked. "You heard what he said!"

They settled him onto the seat again, this time propped upright with a blanket supporting his back and another one beneath his knee. Wilson had already eased the shoe off, and was working on the pressure points of House's foot.

Sonny pulled out slowly and angled back onto the macadam. A hundred yards further down the road, his laughter caught all of them by surprise. "You won't believe this!" He said.

Three pairs of curious eyes trained on his face and the back of his head.

"There's an old moth-eaten coyote back there … I can see him in the rear-view mirror … having himself the best meal he's had in a month!" His voice barked with laughter.

"_Eeewww_ …"

Nikki saved the other two from saying it.

00000000

Sonny backed off the speed a little as they cruised into Flagstaff at 6:30 p.m. House had dozed off, after having taken another Vicodin. Wilson kept his fingers on House's foot and massaged gently from time to time during the last seventy-five miles. His hands ached and his thumbs, especially, felt as though they might drop off.

Nikki sat, still half-turned in her seat, keeping tabs on the two in back, but said little. The questions in her mind, however, nagged with deep concern. No one, she thought, deserved to experience the misery that Gregory House lived with every day. Wilson looked across at her, inclined his head and blinked his eyes in a "what-can-I-say" gesture, fully understanding that she and Sonny, and everyone else, for that matter, were mostly in the dark about Gregg's true condition. Wilson had not made any effort to inform them, because even though it stank to high heaven, the pain was so much a part of who House had become in recent years.

Sonny pulled the Hummer up to a pump at a Sunoco station, which had a diner and small convenience store attached. He got out and went to the pump, set it on medium blend and locked it into place. Wilson dug his wallet from a back pocket, extracted fifty dollars and stuck it out the window. "Defraying the costs," he jibed. "Don't say no, or I shall be highly pissed off."

Sonny accepted the cash gracefully. "Thanks Jimmy. I appreciate it, but you didn't have to …"

"Oh shut-um up, you damned Redskin!" It was a very old joke between them.

Sonny laughed deep in his throat. "Me take-um wampum from White Eyes. Much good! Bring-um many squaw to tepee in dark night."

They both laughed, rousing House from his nap. He sat up and looked around, squinting into the setting sun, which cast long shadows on the ground. "Where are we?" He asked in a voice thick with the aftereffects of nausea.

"We're in Flagstaff, Gregg," Nikki told him. "On the outskirts. Won't be long before we're home … at least someplace where you can rest and relax. Are you all right?"

He nodded, voice still thick. "I need to get out, move around and get back to a point where I can walk again. I've been off my feet too long, and I can feel everything freezing up on me. Anyone mind if I do that?"

"No, of course not. There's a picnic area behind the buildings. Sonny can pull over there so you can walk around where there's nothing for you to trip over. Okay? Do you still hurt so badly?"

"No. I'm fine. The meds kicked in, but I have to limber up before my knee locks and I start to walk like a rusty tin soldier." He chanced a grin and a shrug, and wondered why he'd been opening up like this to virtual strangers. There was something about Nikki Asdza that compelled rigid honesty, and House felt humbled before her. At the same time he was aware of Wilson's surprise beside him. He was almost never this candid with Wilson. James almost always had to drag such an admission out of him, and his puzzlement deepened.

Was he coming under the spell of the Indian Hocus Pocus that Wilson had been telling him about all week? Gregg felt as though his tongue was coming loose at both ends, revealing far too much and giving up his most jealously guarded defense mechanisms for the whole world to see. What was it about this desolate place that was making him come unglued? He wondered what else his blathering would lay bare and drag out from within his padlocked soul.

Sonny Tse pushed a credit card into the slot on the gas pump, grabbed the receipt and got back into the Hummer. "Anyone want to walk around a little … stretch your legs?" He asked, as though he'd heard their whole quiet conversation right through the walls of the heavy vehicle. House and Wilson both stared at him in wonder, but Nikki only smiled.

Sonny started the engine and pulled slowly around to the rear of the gas station complex, pulled into a parking stall and shut it down again. Wilson eased Gregg's foot back into the sneaker and laced it loosely.

Sonny turned around almost completely in the driver's seat and brought his eyes to bear on Gregg House's tired face. "You!" He said gravely, "Stay put 'til Jimmy and I come around to get you. No 'tough guy' stuff, no heroics! I'm onto you now, and there's nothing you can do that will fool me anymore. So yield to the logic of the situation and allow us to help you out a little …"

Gregg stared.

This guy is half Navajo and half Vulcan! 

He swallowed the snarky reply he'd been forming and slumped in the seat. "I yield," he groaned sarcastically, "to the 'logic of the situation'! Oh man! Part Earther, part Space Buckaroo!"

The others laughed at his comment, and he frowned at Sonny's reply. "Aha! Another Spock fan, I see."

"No, not Spock!" Gregg told him. "Kirk! The good Captain never _could_ manage to keep his pants zipped. I admire that in a man …"

Wilson rolled his eyes, Sonny laughed, and Nikki managed to look puzzled.

His lameness and pain galled him.

They had to support him on both sides, and even then the misery in his thigh was a heaviness that dragged him down with every step. They asked if he wanted to sit down, but he shook his head ferociously and pressed on. A man across from them, walking a small dog on a leash, stared boldly, disgustedly, as though he might have thought the two men were walking a drunk back to sobriety. Gregg smoldered with resentment. He wanted to punch the guy in the teeth. Cars rolled past them with curious faces pressed to the glass. He seethed.

After ten minutes, it was no better. He could bear little weight, and even the cane was next to useless. He was certain that the whack he'd taken from the armrest on the airliner had damaged his leg more than he'd realized.

_Stuff just happens, Wilson!_

At his sides he could feel tension in the bodies of James and Sonny. He could also feel the electrical charge in the air above his head as they communicated their concern with an exchange of looks. He hated being the topic of a silent conversation in which he was allowed no part. They were planning what they were going to do with him … to him … to try to help him. He didn't like it. He was a doctor too, but right now he felt overwhelmed. He was being ganged up on, and he was ready to stomp some ass.

Yeah … fat chance! 

They settled him back into the Hummer. He sat quietly, hissing through his teeth when they lifted his leg. There was no way he could keep the pain to himself, no way to offer any of them anything but worry and concern on his behalf, and he hated being the cause of it. He hated the fact that he was ruining Sonny's medical conference even before it began. And he was ruining Wilson's chances of relaxing and unwinding with a week spent among old friends. He was ruining his own chance to sit back and rest without interference or anxious looks from everyone present. By then they would all have been told about his "problem".

Worst of all, he was putting these people on the spot for having to cater to his "crippledness" … and his anger was a knot in his stomach … a fist that clamped around his heart.

He knew Wilson was scared to death for him, and his very disability already put a strain on Wilson every day of his life. He respected Wilson, admired him, loved him like a brother, and here he was, fucking up Wilson's life again! House clammed up, turned his head into the backrest of the seat and let his self-pity wash over him like hot summer rain. When would this fucking crap ever end?

It was just after eight in the evening when the lights of "Rez", as the staff called it, finally hove into view. Heat waves from the desert made them shimmer in the air like the lights of a ship far out at sea. The sun was just beginning to sink below the western horizon, painting the skies with brush strokes of blue, violet, pink, gold and silver.

Sonny pointed to the monstrous building dead ahead with a short burst of affectionate laughter. "Home Sweet Home!" He said. Gregg sat up and stared. Beside him, Wilson once again slipped his sneaker back on and eased House's leg off the seat.

As the Hummer drew closer, the outline of the old hospital building began to coalesce into a menacing structure that looked like an ancient industrial complex, constructed in a crazy quilt pattern of wood, brick and adobe. It sprawled like a dead monolith on the landscape, its outbuildings like appendages reaching out from the main body. It was surrounded by a couple of acres of fence, comprised of boxwood railings, locust posts, hog wire and vinyl netting where the hog wire had rusted out or been knocked out by vehicles or by some large animal in a snit. Beside the main entrance, surrounded by floodlights turned on by staff members who heard the Hummer's engine, a ring of cars covered with a thin layer of red dust, stood parked in careless disarray. Mostly rentals. Some of the conventioneers had already arrived.

Sonny brought the big SUV through the open gate and pulled in close to the ramp at the main entrance. In the glare of lights, about a half dozen people waited for the latest arrivals. At the front of the crowd, a bearded gray-haired man in white scrubs stood with both hands clasped to the handles of a serious-looking wheelchair, complete with contoured seat, deeply padded leg rests and padded armrests. House glared. Somebody had obviously called ahead.

Nikki opened her door and beckoned to the man with the wheelchair. "Oscar! Go over to the other side. Please help Dr. Tse assist Dr. House into the chair. His leg is giving him a lot of trouble, and I need you to be very gentle."

The man named Oscar nodded. "Yes, Miz Nikki. Right away." The man hurried around to the opposite side of the Hummer with the empty wheelchair. James Wilson opened his door and stepped out, torn between greeting the people before him and hurrying to House's side to assist. He knew Gregg was in good hands with Sonny, so he attended to the task at hand. He was suddenly aware of a small figure withdrawing from the center of the group and bounding to his side with barely contained energy. Then he was wrapped in a bear hug; held tightly and enthusiastically by a small African American woman with silver hair, huge earrings and dark piercing eyes.

Wilson grinned as he spun her around, his tallness emphasizing her tininess, wrapping her in his strong arms with a growl of delight. "Rema! Oh my God … Rema! It's been so long, and you're just as beautiful as ever!"

She laughed, low and throaty as always, releasing him, standing back to gaze at his smiling face. "Oh, you are such a beautiful child!" She gushed. "Jimmy, you still have the face of an angel … and all the bullshit to go with it … like an Italian Sea Captain! It is _so_ good to see you again!" Her demeanor grew serious when she turned away from him at last to watch what she could see of the activity on the other side of the Hummer. "Nikki tells me your Dr. House is experiencing some serious pain. He's injured his leg?"

"Yeah … something like that," Wilson acknowledged. "Muscle infarction. Thigh. Most of his right quadriceps is gone. Nerve damage." He followed her gaze to the spot where Sonny and Oscar were assisting House into the chair. "He … has chronic pain, and he had a series of mishaps on the way out here. We need to get him into an exam room as soon as possible. I don't think it's anything serious, but I'd really rather err on the side of caution."

"Of course!"

They were bringing the chair around now, behind the Hummer and closer to the wheelchair ramp beside the entry. House looked exhausted, but the deep lines of pain that had creased his eyes and twisted his lips were gradually relaxing. Wilson heaved a sigh of relief and knelt at his friend's side. "Hey …"

House's head came up. "Yes, Jimmy. I hear you. Will'ya … _please_ … stop worrying?"

Good! The snark was back, and that was always a good sign. Wilson placed his fingers directly atop House's hand on the armrest. "Give me a number!" He ordered under his breath.

House pulled a face, but did as requested. "Six … give or take."

"You know you're headed to one of the exam rooms …?"

"I figured."

The line of people parted as Sonny Tse propelled the wheelchair and its occupant up the ramp. Introductions would have to wait.

They were nearly to the open entry door when a sudden flurry of deep-throated barking filled the air behind them. Sonny paused at the top of the ramp and turned, smiling.

Beyond the perimeter of the fence, outlined by the last of the setting sun, a lithe black body ran flat-out in the direction of the Hummer. Faces turned to watch as the graceful form of a beautiful black dog materialized out of the darkness and skidded to a halt, perking up her ears at the sight of Sonny and the chair he was pushing. She whined, questioning, and he called her to his side. "Amiga … come on over."

She padded up the ramp, cautiously, to the side of her master and sat down calmly at his feet. Her tail, however, cleaned all the minutiae of debris from the ramp for fifteen inches in both directions. Gregg House stared at the graceful creature beside him. He had never seen a dog like this. Her majestic head was tilted upward, dark eyes only for Sonny, as he shifted a hand downward to lay it affectionately on her head. It was a silent communion, and Gregg saw her body become still as she turned to stone beneath her master's touch.

House wondered how long it had taken for an animal to be trained this superbly. He marveled. His pain was pushed momentarily aside. He did not normally care much for dogs, mainly because he was afraid of them and their innate ability to throw him on his ass. But this one was different. He could feel it. Just as _everything_ out here was different.

Her head was black, her face split by a wide white blaze that reached down over her muzzle. There was brown around her mouth and two brown splotches over her eyes that gave her a look of wisdom. Her ears were long and silky, her chest pure white. All four legs were brown, the toes white. And there was a white splash of long hairs at the tip of her tail, as though the artist who painted her had dropped his brush at the end.

"Carry on, Amiga," Sonny said, and she stood up on all fours, ready to precede them through the door. But her muzzle brushed Gregg's knee when she moved, and suddenly she froze, sniffing him in puzzlement, looking into his face, then back at Sonny. She whined, deep in her throat, and thrust her cold, wet nose into the upraised palm of Gregory House's hand. He touched an ear and felt the softness of her coat. She leaned into him in response, both gentle and compassionate. His eyes widened. This was no ordinary dog. He looked up at Sonny Tse's startled face with questions in his eyes. Amiga, meanwhile, rested her head carefully in his lap.

Indrawn breaths from the small crowd of people along the perimeter of the ramp echoed in his consciousness. None of them had witnessed anything like this before either.

"I don't understand why she did that," the Navajo said softly. "She's never done it before. You part Redskin, House?"

Gregg shook his head, a puzzlement crossing his face. "I don't think so," he said. "I have no taste for fried rattlesnake or sautéed armadillo … and I never counted coup."

Sonny smiled. This guy was just as irreverent as Jimmy Wilson. No wonder they seemed to have such a deep affinity for one another. "Well, the only thing that might explain it is the fact that she's a cancer dog. She can detect early stages of cancer, and most of the time we've found that she's right. She also has a deep instinct for someone who's in pain. You do fill the bill there. Anyhow, she likes you. And when Amiga likes somebody … well … you'll play hell to try to get rid of her."

"We have something in common then. People tell me I'm harder to get rid of than a case of the clap."

There were spurts of laughter from those behind them, and a small roll of the eyes from James Wilson. It seemed that the ice between all of them had been shattered to smithereens.

It was time to get Dr. House to an exam room and then into bed. Sonny pushed the wheelchair through the door after Amiga, and the little entourage followed quietly behind.

So much for heralded arrivals …

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60


	7. Chapter 7

- Chapter 7 –

"Rez"

Nicole Asdza volunteered to stay behind to offer their early visitors the explanation they deserved on the unglamorous arrival of Dr. Gregory House.

When Jim Wilson, Rema Marks and Sonny Tse shifted House from the wheelchair to the gurney and disappeared down the corridor to the elevator, she gathered the rest of them in the dining room. "Get yourselves a cup of coffee and a donut and come over to the table."

There were five other staff members there, and she thought it best to let everyone know about House. He hadn't been on Sonny's original invitation list, and Sonny had never known him, nor had he known that Gregg was a close friend of James Wilson, who _was_ on the original list. They had all heard of the man, of course. He was somewhat of a legend in East Coast medical circles as a brilliant Diagnostician and somewhat of a maverick. What most of them didn't know, however, were the details of his medical history, or even the fact that he lived every day of his life with a painful disability.

There were two other visiting medical people in the spacious dining room: Alan Tam, the slender young General Practitioner from Seattle, Washington, and Susan Carr, a forty-ish, high-energy Medical Management type from Boston. Nikki's three staff members, who lived locally in the town of Tuba City, were Oscar Ramirez, Chaz Kehoe and Nola VanDrokian, already dragging out the coffee urn and boxes of donuts: playing hosts and relishing it. They so seldom got to hobnob with outsiders; they were almost wallowing in the sea of opportunity.

Standing patiently beside the door to the corridor, the big Burmese Mountain dog, Amiga, waited for the reappearance of her master, but could not resist turning her attention periodically to the smell of donuts on the table. Nikki called her over with a smile and offered her a powdered cruller. Amiga took it from her fingers politely and retreated to her place by the door to eat it.

Susan Carr, tall, thin, dark-haired and pale-eyed, poured a cup of coffee and sat down with it. Her multiple bracelets, bead strands and sweeping metal earrings, Nikki decided, gave her a sound reminiscent of a horse pulling a sleigh.

"Poor Doctor House," Susan was saying with a sigh, "I feel so sorry for the poor man. I didn't know before that he was handicapped. Did any of the rest of you?" She didn't bother to wait for an answer, but gushed on, unobserving of the frowns already appearing on the faces of her colleagues. "A friend of my father's has rheumatoid arthritis, and has to walk with arm canes. He has to be helped in and out of chairs, in and out of cars; his family has to dress and undress him and give him his bath at night. I wonder if poor Doctor Wilson has to help Doctor House in the same manner? It must be very difficult to be his colleague. I know I'd be frightened to death even to touch him, for fear I might hurt him in some way …" She looked up from taking a sip of coffee and finally saw everyone's eyes upon her. "Have I said something wrong?"

Nikki shook her head before anyone else jumped in with a nasty comment. Was this woman for real? "Are you a medical doctor, Miz Carr?" Nikki asked politely.

"Oh no," Carr told her. "My skills are exclusively in the Medical Administrative field. My supervisor wanted me to attend this conference in the hopes that I would learn something valuable …"

"I'll bet he did!" Nikki said in a voice just below sarcasm. "But you're on the wrong track." She looked around the table and watched the others pour coffee and help themselves to donuts. She did the same, then sat back in her chair and studied the ring of faces.

"Dr. House," she began in a professional manner, "suffered a muscle infarction in his leg. He developed a blood clot in the vessels beneath the quadriceps muscle of his right thigh. The condition was misdiagnosed repeatedly, and he was left to lie in severe pain for three days. When the necrotic tissue was finally debrided from the site, he had suffered muscle death and extensive nerve damage. Not only is the leg's function badly compromised, but he suffers chronic pain. He will probably continue to do so for the rest of his life.

He is normally a strong and vital man, despite his limitations, Dr. Wilson tells me, but the leg is painful, and he had several small mishaps on the trip out here. Therefore, he is being checked out as we speak to make sure he has suffered no additional damage. Dr. Tse, Dr. Marks, and Dr. Wilson believe he may have a few bruises, but nothing worse than that. Dr. Wilson is a colleague and close friend, and has monitored his condition for years.

We should know very soon how he is and what treatment they are giving him, if any. The others will join us here when they finish. Dr. House will probably be sedated for the night and allowed to recuperate until morning.

"At any rate, this is a brilliant and respected doctor we have with us. Both of them are. We can learn a lot from them. Please … whatever you do, don't jump to assist Dr. House or wait on him, or do things for him that he is capable of doing for himself. He doesn't like it, and I can't blame him. If you're in doubt, follow the lead of Dr. Wilson, who's known Gregg a lot longer than we have."

Susan's eyes widened at the news, and she went on excitedly as though she had not heard a word Nikki said. "Oh, but what if he has to be in a wheelchair? How can he possibly be expected to maneuver one of those things in the narrow hallways of this hospital? Some of us will have to do things for him then, won't we?"

Nikki frowned over the lip of her coffee cup. "Are you volunteering, Susan?"

The woman's eyes widened. "Well no, not really," she said as though the very thought was distasteful. "But someone needs to be responsible for taking care of him!"

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Amiga raised her head. A snippet of polite laughter reached them from the doorway of the room as Dr. Wilson turned the corner and approached with a weary smile on his face.

He addressed his remarks to Susan Carr. "Don't you think that decision should be left up to Dr. House? He's asleep, by the way, and he wasn't hurt too seriously. He will join us in the morning … ambulatory or not." All at the same moment, six pairs of eyes darted to him, and Amiga scrambled to her feet with a whine of welcome. "I smell the delightful aroma of fresh coffee." His eyes traveled to Susan again as he introduced himself. "I'm Jim Wilson, Princeton, New Jersey. And … your name is?"

Susan peered up curiously. "I'm Susan Carr, Boston, Massachusetts. I was just saying that someone needs to look after Dr. House very closely while he's here, and …"

Wilson held up a hand, silencing her momentarily as Sonny Tse and Rema Marks entered through the door behind him. Jim's honey-auburn hair hung almost into his eyes, his necktie was gone and his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows. He pulled out the chair between Susan and Alan Tam and dropped into it. The tie landed across the back of the chair.

Nola VanDrokian, one of "Rez" Hospital's LPNs, set a large brimming cup of black coffee in front of him, and then pushed the tray of donuts, a sugar dispenser, bowl of creamers and a spoon close beside it. Wilson thanked her and she smiled in appreciation at his pretty brown eyes. Jim continued to focus on Susan, needing to stress the fact that any act of obsequious servitude on behalf of Gregory House, would not be greeted kindly.

Sonny and Rema sat down across the table and were treated to coffee and donuts also, as they focused their attention on what Jim Wilson had to say about his colleague. They had already been initiated into the eccentricities of House, and had been nothing, if not impressed, by his uniqueness and off-the-wall sense of humor.

Wilson took a sip of his coffee, added a single creamer and sighed deeply. "This is like a gift from the Great Spirit," he said appreciatively. I've been waiting for this for hours. Thank you." He took another sip, set the cup down, and began to talk in a low voice, almost conspiratorial. "Ah yes, Gregory House. My colleague and my friend; my intelligent, sarcastic, funny friend! 

"I know his middle name, you see … but I have been sworn to secrecy about it for over ten years!" Wilson smiled to himself before continuing, and found other smiles around the table as well. An interesting story was in the offing.

"Gregg House is one of a kind … a 'different breed of cat', if you will. Please understand; he chose me to be _his_ friend. I did not choose him. And he could just as easily 'un-choose' me at any time. So far, he has opted not to, and I am honored to be at his side. He keeps me focused; he tries my patience and pisses me off royally. He keeps me humble, and he is the most brilliant human being I have ever met in my entire life." Wilson sighed with weariness, took another sip of coffee, and looked around.

"That being said, I have to warn all of you … and I'd appreciate it if you could all pass this around to the others as they arrive … don't try to engage Dr. House in a verbal brawl of any kind … unless you want to come out of it bloody and battered. He can cut you down with a few well-chosen words. He's quick and deadly. His mind works twice as fast as anyone else I know, and he takes no prisoners. Once you're down, he will step on you, grind you into the dirt, wipe his feet on the middle of your back, walk away and never look back.

"Oh, but there's more! As a diagnostician, he has no equal. At least, no one I've ever met. He's relentless in tracking down the cause of an illness. Once he finds it and identifies the problem, he is again relentless in its resolution. He pushes his colleagues and his staff until they … I should say 'we' … are ready to drop, and then pushes us even more. I can't begin to tell you the number of lives he's been instrumental in saving just during the past year. And he does this even while in moderate-to-severe physical pain.

His leg is a problem to everyone who knows him, in more ways than one, but his pain is the catalyst that pushes him to greater heights. It rules his life, but not his dedication. Those who don't know Gregg, think he's a … pardon the expression … 'total asshole'. He's angry, bitter, misanthropic and sometimes downright mean. But underneath the pain, you will never find _anyone_ more keenly centered on the patients he cares for. Nobody is supposed to know that though, so if anyone ever asks, you didn't hear it from me! He's a very private person. Don't try to get personal with him. You'll gain his respect a lot easier if you let him take the lead. I knew him a long time before the leg, and I know pretty much what's underneath the layers of pain he'll never let you see.

"Don't patronize him! Don't ask him how he's feeling, because you'll get a smart-ass answer. Don't even look at his leg, if you can help it. He hates pity. He hates that the only thing people see is the leg and the limp and the cane. His own focus is always on it unless he's working on something that distracts him, because as I said, it rules him. But he won't tolerate sympathy from anyone else.

If he wakes up tomorrow morning and it turns out he can't walk yet … because we did find a nasty bruise near the infarction site, so it's possible … and has to use crutches or the wheelchair, he is going to be mean as catshit! Just leave him alone. He has to handle it by himself and in his own good time, but he'll come around.

"So. That's about all I can tell you for now. Guess that's about enough for one night, huh? Anyhow, Gregg is sedated and asleep in his room. As far as I know, he's resting comfortably … at least as comfortable as he ever gets. I'm glad to be here and happy to meet everyone. And I'm so tired I'm ready to drop. Would anybody really mind if I go to bed?"

Wilson went silent and looked across to his hosts. They were nodding ascent, and so was everyone else. "I'm bunking in Gregg's room, right?"

Sonny smiled. "I was going to say yes, Jimmy … unless you think Gregg is going to hit you with his cane in the middle of the night! In that case, you can sleep in the stable if you want!"

"Because there's no room at the Inn, huh?" Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled tiredly. "That's me … the Jewish Messiah! Thanks pal … old college buddy. I'll remember that, Redskin!" He looked around shyly and waved a hand. He tossed the necktie over his shoulder and walked out. What remained of his coffee sat cold on the table.

Eight voices in unison: "Good night, Jim."

00000000

Gregg House moaned in his sleep in the middle of the night, and it brought James Wilson to full wakefulness like a mother with a newborn infant. Jim sat straight up in bed and scrubbed the cobwebs from his brain with the swipe of a hand across his face. He froze in that position like a thief in the darkness, and listened, both eyes wide with residual alarm. House's body was only a sharp landscape of edges and angles on the other twin bed across the room. The fancy wheelchair was parked at an angle near the foot of the bed, nosed into the corner. Gregg's right leg, propped on a bed pillow, cast an eerie shadow across the floor, as did the raised right arm which lay positioned across his face, blocking the glow of the area light from the parking lot one floor down.

Wilson watched for a minute until his friend's breathing evened out again. Then he pressed the button that lighted the dial of his watch and stared at it with a frown. It was a little after three in the morning and he was wide awake. Wilson stood up, feeling the effects of a full bladder from too much coffee. He needed to find the head.

But first:

Wilson crossed the room cautiously and looked down at the man in the other bed. Gregg was a light sleeper, but James doubted he would awaken since being pumped full of that witches' brew of medication six hours before. Wilson stretched out his hand and touched Gregg's forehead with the backs of his fingers. His skin was cool to the touch, however, and he was definitely not running a temperature, a good sign. There was an ice sleeve tucked around the bad leg over the bruise near the infarction site, and when he touched the bag with the tip of a finger, he found that it had long since melted down. Quickly he loosened the slide catch that held it in place and withdrew it gently. House didn't move, but slept on in blissful oblivion, attesting to his utter exhaustion from the events of the day. Wilson knew all about that!

Now it was time to find a bathroom. High time! He stepped into his moccasins, opened the bedroom door and eased himself out into the hallway. It was hot out there. There were air conditioners in the individual rooms, but the building had no central plant, one more thing, which could be updated with the proper funding. Already he was forming an idea that might help with that, but it was only a tiny speck germinating in his mind, and there was no time for it now.

He had to go! He looked both ways, then turned right and walked toward the end of the hallway. The bathroom was there, last room on the right. Two urinals, four stalls and two showers. Unisex toilet. Probably. Sinks were lined across the opposite side, and it was _hot_ in there! He relieved himself, washed his hands and left quickly.

A closed door loomed at the end of the hall, and there was no window in it, no sign announcing its purpose. Wilson wondered what might be beyond it. He tried the doorknob. It was not locked, and he peered in.

Whoa! It was an open bay. It looked like an Army barracks; beds lined both walls with a wide aisle down the middle. Each bed had a table, a lamp and a small locker beside it. About a third of the beds contained people! Women, from what he could tell in the semi-darkness. They were all sleeping; some had IV bags hanging from stanchions. One had a bandaged arm. One or two were restless, tossing in their sleep. At the other end of the room, a large desk stood in a corner with a dim light in the middle of it.

Behind the desk sat a very large woman in white scrubs. She looked familiar. He stared.

Oh yeah! It was … what's-her-name … the woman who had served him coffee, then paused a second to flirt. Nola! Nola VanDrokian, the LPN. She must be on night shift in this ward. The air in here was cool, but not cold. Wilson closed the door behind him and moved quietly toward her.

She had been writing in a notebook, transposing numbers from sheets of paper that lay in a stack at the edge of the desk. Wilson took note that she was a left-hander like him. He cleared his throat as he approached, trying not to startle her as he entered the small space of light. Nola looked up, wide-eyed for a moment, and then realized who it was and smiled. "Dr. Wilson? What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep," he said. No use going into detail. "This is a very, very old building, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Yes it is. They used to manufacture barbed wire in here a hundred years ago. They warehoused it in this wing. There are still depressions in the floor where they dragged the bales over to the central elevator to take it down for shipping. There was once a railroad siding that ran in here from Flagstaff, but that was removed a long time ago." She smiled again, and Wilson saw that she had pretty eyes and very deep dimples. Perhaps even deeper than Gregory House's!

"This place has quite a long history then," he noted. "Are all your patient wings located in open bays like this one?"

Nola shook her head and laid her pencil aside. "Come sit down, Doctor. You look so weary, and that bothers me." She cleared a stack of papers off a second chair behind the desk. "No, this is kind of an area for indigents. The men's bay is in the opposite wing from this one. Oscar is on over there tonight … he's the man who brought the wheelchair out for Dr. House when you arrived. There are private and semi-private rooms in the other two wings. The ORs, intensive care units and the maternity section are all located in the central part of the building. You were on the third floor this evening when you and Dr. Sonny treated Dr. House. How is he, by the way? Is he able to sleep? You're not really going out to sleep in the stable, are you?" She smiled at her own joke.

Wilson smiled back and decided he liked this lady. "Naw … I don't think so. Besides, I hid Gregg's cane, so he couldn't hit me with it even if he wanted to. As far as I know, he's sleeping just fine; best thing for him. I checked him just before I left … I was on a mission to hunt for a bathroom because your coffee went straight through me."

"Did you find it okay?"

"Oh sure … and when I came back out, I saw the door that leads to this place, and I wondered where it led … and here we are."

"It's really not that complicated. You can learn the whole layout of this place in a couple of hours. Everything branches off from the central elevator … or if you prefer, the flights of stairs that go up right beside it. Sometimes patients doing rehab will use the stairs for a place to exercise, and when they stomp up and down, it echoes through the whole building. It's weird. You can hear it in the dining room especially. But you'll find out about that soon enough. I think Sonny and Nikki are planning a walking tour around the grounds after everyone arrives tomorrow … probably in the evening after it cools down a little. Sunday starts the lectures and the workshops. You're giving an Oncology presentation, aren't you? And Dr. House will be giving a lecture on Diagnostics. I sincerely hope he will feel well enough by then."

"Yeah," Wilson said. "My talk is scheduled for Sunday evening, and House's, right after that.

Then we go over the workshop assignments that start on Monday. Oh … and don't worry whether Gregg is up to giving his lecture. If he doesn't feel well or is in pain, I assure you, no one will be aware of it but him! He's stubborn and proud and independent and has ways of letting everyone know it. Trust me!"

She laughed softly. "Oh I do, Dr. Wilson. I do."

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He left her pleasant company at 4:15 a.m. and wandered back to their shared room, letting himself in quietly.

House was awake, staring at the ceiling, in pain again and whiny. "Where the hell have you been, Wilson?"

"Over in one of the open bays, talking to Nola VanDrokian." He was purposely vague.

"What open bay? Who's Nola Van-Whatever-you-said? My leg is killing me. I need my meds, and it hurts to move. Get the bottle out of my jacket pocket, will you?"

Wilson eyed his friend with skepticism. Gregg had been fine when he'd left a little over an hour before. He'd probably awakened to find himself alone and looked across to see Wilson's rumpled bedcovers, but no Wilson. Now he was a little on the pissy side to get even. James glared at him. "You sound like a four-year-old," he said in his quiet manner.

"Yeah! A four-year-old in _pain_!"

Wilson could see House's left hand curled into a fist at his side. The sedatives had worn off and he really was hurting again. Wilson picked up the rumpled sports jacket and pulled the vial of Vicodin from its pocket. He popped the lid and tipped one into his hand, handed it across. House crunched down, breaking it up, then swallowed, speeding the medicine on its vital mission to his nerve endings. "Thanks …"

"Sure," Wilson said, and then knelt at his friend's side. "You should see the rest of this place!"

It's like something that came through a time warp, straight out of the Nineteenth Century. The beds look like Army cots lined along the walls, the lights hang from the ceilings in little wire cages, there are grooves in the floors from dragging bales of barbed wire across them a hundred years ago. Wow! I don't see how Sonny does it. This place is downright primitive!"

Cautiously he reached to House's hand, poking a finger into the tightly curled fist, inviting him to relax and open it.

House turned his focus from "holding-his-breath" mode to look down where Wilson's finger intruded into his hand. Slowly he unfolded his own fingers and opened up his grip to lay his palm upward. Four perfectly arced semi-circles were dug into the skin from long fingernails imbedded in the flesh. "Sorry."

"No you're not. Are the meds beginning to kick in yet?"

"It's been ten seconds, Wilson. You said we were in the Nineteenth Century, not the Twenty Third!"

"Yeah, I know. Try to relax. I'm going to check your leg, make sure you're not swelling." Wilson moved toward the foot of the bed on his knees.

"No! Don't!"

"Hush! You're such a baby! I'm not going to hurt you."

"You are so."

"Am not."

"Are."

"Shut up!" Wilson's hand was already on top of the bony knee. Just the fact that it was 'bony' told him the swelling they'd found earlier had receded. Further up, around the badly scarred thigh, even the angry purple bruise on the outside of House's leg was not hot or distended. "You can stop holding your breath now. You're fine."

"Am not! Hurts!"

"I think we've had this argument before. Your leg always hurts. You're going to be sore for a few days, but there's no swelling, and the area isn't hot. You're fine." Wilson climbed wearily to his feet and crossed to his own bed. Sat down heavily.

"Easy for you to say! Your leg isn't throwing off electric sparks!"

"Neither is yours. Shut-the-hell up and go back to sleep! It's only 5:00 a.m."

"You don't love me anymore!"

"Oh I do so. I'm just tired of your bellyaching. Go to sleep."

"I want my Mommy."

"House," Wilson was smiling now, and it came out in his voice. "Shut the fuck up!" He toppled over onto the bed and turned his back to the middle of the room.

Silence ensued.

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Wilson got up very quietly at 6:30 a.m. He pulled on jeans and tee shirt. Fished his western boots out of his luggage, and holding them in one hand, opened the door and tiptoed from the room. House was asleep. Snoring softly. Wilson went down the stairs rather than wait for the rumbling elevator, which would have awakened the dead. He sat on the bottom step and pulled on the boots. They were well broken in and pliable. They were red, white and blue with working heels and white eagles adorning the front risers. Roy Rogers specials from more than twenty years ago. They had been a birthday gift from his parents when he turned sixteen, and though he would have preferred his own car, these had done very nicely as a consolation prize. He'd always been very glad he'd hung onto them. Cars were a dime a dozen, but not commemorative Roy Rogers cowboy boots!

He stood up and turned the corner along the hallway that led toward the hospital's kitchen. He could hear voices and conversation and intermittent laughter up ahead, and he decided the coffee must already be on and new visitors arriving even as he thought about it. He moved through the kitchen with its coffee urns bubbling away enthusiastically, two men in white aprons who looked up and smiled as he passed by. He smiled a "good morning" in return and pushed past the double doors into the dining room. At 6:45 a.m. the place was filling with people.

Sonny, Nikki, Alan Tam, and Susan Carr were already there, welcoming the newcomers who came through the door, carrying luggage and conference materials, contributing to the general confusion. Amiga sat in the middle of the floor with a Meaty Bone in her mouth, watching the melee with shining eyes. Staff members Wilson hadn't met yet were sidestepping among the arrivals, calling out names, leading people away toward their week's accommodations and just being generally helpful in keeping the din of confused conversation to a minimum.

Wilson tapped Sonny Tse on a shoulder and stage-whispered into his ear: "What can I do to help?"

Sonny turned to his friend and threw his head in the air, silky black hair cascading in all directions. "Jimmy! How'd you sleep? How is Gregg?"

"I slept fine. Had to get up in the middle of the night to use the john and ended up shooting the breeze with Nola until almost 4:30. Gregg is still asleep. I left him alone, but I think he'll be all right. I hope."

"Thank God! Or thank the Great Spirit … or whatever. I was worried about him. He doesn't really always manage his pain that well, does he?"

Wilson turned a frown of puzzlement on the perceptive Navajo. "You're very good," he said. "Actually, no. Sometimes it overwhelms him, and it comes out in strange ways. I can usually tell, but I was beginning to think I had the inside track."

Sonny smiled tentatively, as though he were harboring a deep secret. "You do," he said. "Definitely. But you need to guard your own feelings a little more, Paleface Brother. I've found that I can tell how much pain Gregg is in, just by watching your face. Actually, he does hide it very well … but you don't!"

Wilson dipped his head. "Didn't realize it was that obvious."

"Only to me." Sonny placed a compassionate hand on James' shoulder. "Your secret is safe as long as you need it to be. Does he know?"

"Unhh … "

"Understood. You can help serve the coffee if you want something to do." Sonny grinned, winked, and turned back to his guests as though their words had never been exchanged.

Wilson trudged back to the kitchen, his mind whirling with thoughts of his own feelings. He'd always believed his deep regard for Gregory House was buried so deeply in his soul that they were inaccessible. Not so, he found. Sonny Tse had guessed the truth within hours.

He had work to do. He found himself unplugging the huge coffee urns and hossing them into the dining room, re-plugging them into ports behind tables set up at the side of the room. He lifted the lids of each urn and removed the grounds, hossing them, in turn, back to the kitchen. He picked up tray after tray of sugar dispensers, large bowls of the little creamers, and plastic cutlery and paper plates for the endless procession of bacon, scrambled eggs and home fries the kitchen workers were suddenly bringing into the dining room and placing on the tables.

People were returning from their assigned rooms, finding places among the others already there, and serving themselves from the coffee urns and mounds of breakfast food being liberally tossed about. By 8:00 a.m. people were still filing in the back door, being taken to their rooms, and returning to share the breakfast goodies. As fast as one coffee urn was emptied, Wilson took it to the kitchen and filled it with coffee and water again. By 8:15 a.m., Nola and Oscar Ramarez had been relieved at their posts and joined the throng of people in the dining room. Nola waved at James and shouted over the din: "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock!" He shouted back, and went on with his table bussing.

"Where's Gregg?"

"Still sleeping."

"Okay. Later!"

"Right."

There were about fifty people in the room now, and there was a lull in the milling around. James Wilson had some time to get himself a cup of coffee and a plate of goodies and sit down to enjoy it. He found himself a place, and as he sat, Rema joined him in a flurry of movement. For a woman nearing seventy years of age, she had the energy of a teen-ager. She placed her cup of black coffee on the table by his plate and ruffled his silky hair with her long brown fingers. "Good morning, Gorgeous!" She gushed. "You're looking especially handsome this morning."

James grinned, half embarrassed. "Ree-ma!"

She giggled and sat down beside him. "Can't help it," she declared. "Just can't help it! You are such a beautiful child!"

Wilson stared down at his plate, feeling the scarlet come upward from the tips of his toes. Nobody at Princeton-Plainsboro ever embarrassed him like this. He reached his right hand upward and scrubbed it across the back of his neck, scowling at her sideways. He simply did not know what to do, and so he did nothing. Across the room, Nikki and Nola were sitting together watching the exchange, and he suddenly heard them laughing in his direction. "I'll second that," one of them said quietly.

He wished he could just curl into a little ball and disappear. "Come on, guys!" He finally pleaded. "Please!"

"Where is Dr. House?" Another voice asked. The room suddenly quieted.

Wilson looked up. It was Susan Carr. She was sitting with Alan Tam, and the young man was trying to hush her up.

"He's sleeping." 

"Oh. Doesn't he like our company?"

"That's not it at all."

"Susan, hush!" They were the first words Wilson had heard Tam speak since he'd arrived. He wanted to pat the young man on the back.

The din of conversation resumed.

Rema got up to refill her coffee cup. The urn was empty. "I'd better check on the other urn." She headed for the kitchen.

Wilson started to get to his feet. "I'll do it, Rema."

"Jimmy, sit down and finish your breakfast while it's hot. I'm just going to check on the other urn."

He sat down again. "Okay, but holler if you need help."

He heard the double doors flap with her passage. He took another bite of bacon. It was delicious.

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Gregory House sat on the edge of the bed and stretched his head back between his shoulder blades. He was stiff, but surprisingly no worse for wear from the intense pain of the day before. It was after 7:30 now, and things were going on downstairs without him. He was hungry! Wilson's bed was made and he was long gone. Jim's travel bag stood open on the chair against the wall. Gregg's own bag was lying open on the other chair against the other wall, and Wilson had placed his sneakers on top of it so he would not have to reach to the floor for them. How kind! He eyed it with disdain, but he supposed he would have to find something from it to wear today. Sweat pants or jeans? That was the question of the hour, the decision of the day. He sighed. Even the small task of standing upright was a big decision. He had taken a Vicodin almost as soon as his head had left the pillow and he'd lifted his leg over the edge of the bed to settle his foot on the floor. Pain flared immediately, but he had waited as he always did when getting up in the morning, and it settled down again. His cane, however, was across the room, hanging from the door handle where he couldn't possibly reach it. For all his caring and doting, Wilson had slipped up on a biggie, and House was annoyed. He knew he was not being fair, but the space between his bed and the hallway looked as large as the expanse of the entire Sonoran Desert. He cursed under his breath.

Hobson's choice! He must get it for himself or not at all, and sit here until Wilson returned looking for him, wondering why he had not appeared. Anything but that! James might be worried and bring some of the others with him.

Gregg gathered himself to settle most of his weight onto the left side and pushed up with both fists on the mattress. He was standing and the pain was spiking like running lights on a theater marquee. He pressed his right foot onto the floor, seeking balance, but it overwhelmed him and he fell backward onto the bed again, growling deep in his throat, feeling his face reddening and his pulse quickening with pent-up anger.

He sat with his head down and forced himself to accept his body's limitations. The wheelchair stood to his right and he eyed it with bright red hatred. No! Not that! He would walk! He pushed himself upright again and put his toes back on the floor. Some of the pain backed off, but the bruise on his hip and the other one so near the infarction site, was incapacitating him. Even if he made it all the way over to the cane, he was not sure how much use it would be to him. Determined, he held his arms away from his body for balance and took a step. The leg screamed and he gasped with pain. He took another step and balanced. Another. Balance. He made it to the door and unhooked the cane from the doorknob. Placed it on the floor in close proximity to his right foot and took another step. The leg would allow very little weight, but it would have to do. He went to his suitcase for his sneakers, clean socks, underwear. Jeans. Tee shirt. Tossed it all on the bed.

It took Gregg House fifteen minutes to get dressed, and by the time he finished, he was tired. He had to find the bathroom in the same manner as Wilson before him: hunt for it room by room. By the time he'd used a urinal and washed up, he felt light headed and nauseous. He leaned into one of the sinks and waited for it to pass.

The steep stair steps were a chore. He had to descend them one at a time with the cane hooked in his belt and both hands grabbing the banisters. Five minutes to go down one flight was as much a pain in the ass as it was the leg. At the bottom, he made the U-turn and planted the cane by his right foot once again.

Rema Marks was in the kitchen alone, making the last urn of coffee when she heard a sound behind her and turned to look. A tall, bewhiskered man was approaching with effort through the rear door. She frowned.

_Dr. House!_

He was barely ambulatory. His right hand gripped a heavy cane as though his fingers would break, and his opposite hand helped him steady himself by taking additional weight on the work counter as he limped painfully along.

She'd seen him only in the wheelchair last night, and then on the gurney when he'd been brought into the hospital. She remembered how he'd looked when they took him to the third floor to check his leg. He was a very private one. She'd stood at the head of the gurney on which he lay, steadying his head while the others took a look at the injury. He was very uncomfortable with his pants off and a woman in the room, but he'd held still and let them tend to him, fists clenched tightly by his sides.

She'd watched closely as he'd drawn in deep breaths and held them until he couldn't hold them any longer. That's when she'd let her fingers wander into the sweat-saturated tangles of his hair, letting him know that someone was there in support; someone who didn't give a tinker's damn if his private parts were sticking out, only that someone was helping him and trying to alleviate his discomfort.

It was then that she'd begun to think of him as the "Gray Fox". Gray because of the silver flecks in his hair. Fox, because in spite of the misery that contorted his face, he _was!_

And it was the first time she noticed how deeply Jimmy Wilson cared!

Now her heart went out to this man. He was obviously in difficulty and doing his best to minimize it. She wanted to go to his side and shore him up so he would hurt less. But no! Jimmy had said he hated to be patronized. They should not do for him what he could do for himself. And besides that, he hadn't seen her yet. He thought he was alone in the room. His breathing was coming in gasps and he couldn't hold out much longer. She needed to think of something quickly, something which wouldn't piss him off.

House came to the end of the work counter and paused to rest a moment. He raised his head from the concentration of movement, and looked around. Their eyes met and held; hers in quickly assumed curiosity, his in pain and suspicion.

"Well good morning …I'm Rema Marks," she said. "And you … are Gregory House. I can tell, because you do that 'East-Coasty', jeans-and-sport-coat thing they all do back there. You just happen to do it a little better. So! Now that we've introduced ourselves, I hope you slept well, and can I offer you some breakfast and a cup of coffee? You really don't want to go out in the dining room and get all tangled up in that madhouse. It's kind of like a Chinese fire drill out there, and they'd mow you down and never notice. So, we may be stuck with each other for awhile." She lifted an eyebrow, waiting for his response, if any.

He was frowning at her with his head tilted to the side. She could see the icicles forming in the blue eyes at first, but then they softened and he sighed.

"I'm not sure what-all it was you just said to me … my brain is still a little foggy this morning … but I think I heard the word 'coffee' in there somewhere. So, if you're offering, I'm accepting."

She was already pouring coffee into two very old stoneware restaurant mugs. She set one down in front of her and sent the second one spinning along the stainless steel work counter like an old bartender sends a glass of beer across a polished bar without spilling a drop. House caught it deftly between thumb and forefinger.

"How do you like it? Shoes and socks? Or bare-nekkid?" She asked with a grin.

"Haven't heard that one in awhile," he said, and she saw a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. "Nekkid does it for me, thanks."

She nodded. "Sure. I've got bacon, eggs and home fries. Want some? I'm on coffee duty, so I'm kind of stuck out here. Join me?"

He nodded. "Be obliged, ma'am."

"Comin' up."

He could see her looking around the kitchen, searching for something. He watched her closely, shifting his weight off his right side, leaning onto the counter, and she was afraid he was near collapse. Then she was pulling something from between two huge refrigerators. It was a padded chef's stool on casters. She walked it toward him until it was within arms reach of his legs. "Sit down before you fall down!" She demanded.

"You're too damned big for me to pick you up off the floor."

He scowled, but took the stool gratefully and settled onto it with a wince and a grunt of pain. "You certainly messed yourself up yesterday, didn't you, Doctor? What I'd like to know is … why you're not using the wheelchair. Sonny left it in your room for you. Your leg isn't stable enough for you to go back on the cane so soon … and you know it." At the same time she spoke, she had dished up a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, home fries and two slices of toast. She walked it over to him and set it on the counter for him, along with napkin and cutlery.

House glared into her face, but she was smiling back at him in unruffled annoyance at his idiocy, and he let the glare slink back where it had come from. Her smile was delightful in her small dark face, and he had silly visions of "Tinker Bell" flitting around in his head. What _was_ it about this neck of the woods that took his brains and made mush of them? "I'm fine," he said, and took a mouthful of eggs as she turned her back on him and walked away.

"You're rather unskilled as a liar," she said around a gulp of coffee. "You hurt so badly right now that I can see it oozing out your ears. I'm an old trauma doc from way back, and you don't fool me for a second!"

"Really?" His back arched in denial. "And how is that?"

Rema winked at him and smiled again, lowering his defenses even more. "I'll give you fifteen minutes at the outside before you can't stand to have your leg down like that. You need to sit somewhere and get it up on a pillow or something before you go into spasm. I've seen it happen too often not to know. So hurry up and eat your breakfast. Like I said, I don't want to try to pick you up off the floor. We'd both end up in traction! I'll take you over to Sonny's office and put you in the big recliner. Nobody uses it anyway, and it'll be just what the doctor ordered. He's got a big Sony TV in there too. Sound like a plan?"

Gregg could not help himself. "TV?"

"Uh huh." Drawing him in. To her mind he was nothing but an overgrown teenager in grownups' clothing. "He's got Pay-per-View … and a satellite dish the size of Rhode Island!"

House scooped up the last of the food on his plate and set down the fork. "I may be able to live with that. Where is the office?"

She drained her coffee cup before answering. "I'll take you there in five minutes. But first I have to go grab something for you to take along. Okay?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Something you can use," she said cryptically. "Stay put! I'll be right back." She turned in the direction of the dining room, pushed her way through the double doors and disappeared into chaos. Gregg was more than happy to stay where he was. The pain in his leg was escalating as he sat there. He hoped she would hurry. He extracted a Vicodin from his jeans pocket and popped it.

Rema Marks was back in three minutes rather than five. She carried with her a pair of aluminum arm canes; new ones with grey vinyl cuffs, grey hand rests and grey rubber tips. The look on his face turned homicidal, but she ignored it, just as she had done with all his other over-rehearsed expressions.

"Oh, stuff it!" She growled. "Do you think you can scare me by making faces at me? I admit you do look a little scary, but not in the way you want." She held the canes in his face. "Here! I'm a doctor, I'm on the staff of this hospital and that makes me the boss. I'm prescribing these for you so you don't fall and break your neck and become a bigger pain in the ass than you already are."

House's frown deepened to full-blown anger. This woman did not have the right … He opened his mouth to shout, but she was laughing in delight. "Dr. House, if you only knew how silly you look …"

He sputtered, grabbing the crutches she thrust in his face before she hit him in the nose with them. "Silly?"

"Uh huh. Silly! You look as though you'd like to break my neck right now. But you'd have to catch me, and I don't think there's too much chance of that."

Gregg House came up short and stared at her. "Christ!" He grumbled. "You sound just like my boss!"

"Really? Well then, I guess he's another one who's got your number."

"She!"

"Oh Really?" Rema Marks threw back her head and laughed in delight. "Your boss is a _woman?_ Gregory dear, I believe you have just given me the best compliment I've ever received in my whole life."

He slumped and pulled a face, and suddenly they were laughing. Finding the humor in the situation and letting it carry them wherever it would. They were still smiling when it finally wore itself out. "How tall are you? About six-feet-two, I'd say." She was already lengthening the shafts of the canes and handing them back to him.

She had him stand then, this renowned physician from the East Coast who she'd heard could be a real handful. Nonsense! He was a Teddy Bear! A Gray Fox! He balanced himself on the arm canes while she gauged the correct length. She had guessed very well, and knew they would give him the most support with the least pain.

When it was correct, she asked him to make an attempt to straighten his leg as far as he could while she ran her hands delicately from his knee, and down his calf to determine the amount of weight he might place on it. Not much. He could have told her that, but she'd wanted to see for herself. When she was finished, she stood up and moved close to his side. She was all business now. Lightly she touched his hands on the crutch handles. "Don't grip them so hard. It'll throw the tension right up into your shoulders. Relax. That's it."

House watched her closely. Her voice was so gentle that he was compelled to do as she asked. "When you take a step, try to do it as normally as possible. Don't attempt to hold your foot off the floor. That only puts more strain on what's left of the quadriceps muscle and gives the damaged nerves even more reason to torture you. If you can put your foot flat on the floor, go ahead and do it. If you can't, at least touch the floor with your toes and make the step seem as normal as possible."

House nodded, concentrating. He had heard all these things in rehab a long time ago, but life had intervened in the meantime and some of the things he had learned there simply faded with the passage of time and the necessary shifting away from his old habits.

Now he was hearing it again in a refreshingly new way, and from an unhurried instructor. Rema had the same inbred gentleness as James Wilson, and he could not help comparing the two of them. He did as she asked, and found the pain of movement to be vastly diminished. Could James and Rema be right? Would he benefit from using the arm canes permanently, rather than the single cane?

No! Oh no! No Goddamn way! 

He could not use these things any longer than absolutely necessary. He did not need a limb that would atrophy from disuse. If he gave in, there would again be cause to amputate, and they would have to take it off at the hip. He would never walk normally again. It was not an option he could live with. The arm canes were only a stopgap. He would give it a few days and then go back to his cane. He had almost allowed himself to be lulled into taking the easier, softer way. Not gonna happen!

House gathered himself and stepped forward. The movement was very close to normal, and the limp had gone the way of the dinosaur. But it couldn't last. This way he was handless. He could carry nothing, except what he could stuff into his briefcase and sling over his shoulder. With these, he would first have to gage his balance before shaking a man's hand. He could not carry a cup of coffee from the lab to his office. He could not carry a case file or push a wheeled cart with a TV monitor on it. He would even have to prop one of the damned things somewhere just to take a pee. He sighed as they approached Sonny Tse's office.

Two days! No longer! 

When Rema left him to return to the chaos in the dining room, he turned on the TV, popped another Vicodin and leaned back in the chair.

He wondered where Wilson was …

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	8. Chapter 8

- Chapter 8 –

"Rumbles in the Night"

The big house was nestled among a grove of trees.

_Trees!_

They might have missed it, had it not had two area security lights at the rim of the property. The glow through the foliage drew them closer in curiosity. Who would be wealthy enough to build a house all the way out here at the edge of the desert and actually live on an oasis? It was crazy, but it was beautiful. The house was huge, constructed of mountain stone, and the area around it spoke of an income of at least three figures before the decimal point.

There was a garage. And a stable. And a guest house. There was a big black Triumph Bonneville motorcycle parked in front of the garage, black helmet hanging from one of the handlebars. A blue Kawasaki ATV stood by the front door of the house. There were bikes and a John Deere Lawn tractor. There were kids living here too, and the existence of a lawn tractor was almost a contradiction in terms!

Tavon, Mark, Erik and Randall peered through the branches of a small leafy tree and gazed in wonder at the place. Its elegance spoke "class" with a capital "C". They had never expected to come across anything like this, even in their wildest dreams. They moved off to the north side of the property, walking stealthily, keeping their eyes peeled for a vehicle they could drive off with.

Motorcycles they didn't need, or an ATV. It would be nice however, if there were a sedan or SUV they might "borrow" and get the hell back to the old pickup in time to take Jose somewhere to stretch out and wake up. Perhaps with rest, he might recover and lead them to the place where the two computer discs could be turned into riches that would let them live comfortably for the rest of their lives … like the dude who owned this freaky house!

They looked into the windows of each outbuilding one by one, but found nothing. Where the hell did this family keep its cars? There were none in the garage! Then they got to the stable and walked around behind it.

Bingo! Wow!

The thing was a gigantic pickup truck, the size of a Sherman tank, and looked to be brand new. It was a Ford F-250 diesel model, maroon, and decked out with aftermarket trinkets, which, alone, might have bought a Toyota Camry for cash! They slinked up on it, figuring that if they broke into it and hot-wired it … even if such a monstrosity _could_ be hotwired … it would make enough noise to wake the dead. They would have to take it out of gear and push it out of earshot of the people who owned it. They looked at each other and shrugged.

What the hell … 

Tavon reached for the driver's side door handle, just in case it might be unlocked …

And the door opened. The thing started "bonging". The keys were in the ignition. He grinned hugely and looked around at his comrades in arms.

"Seren-fuckin'-dippity-doo-dah-_day_!"

They did indeed take it out of gear and put their shoulders into it, pushing it away from the stable. Fortunately it was backed in. Fortunately it was also aimed in a straight line to the driveway which led to the road, since the steering was locked tight, and would not come free until the engine started up. This they accomplished in jig time. They did not thank their lucky stars; they did not say prayers to any Great Spirits for their good fortune. They simply piled in and started up the howling-loud engine that sounded like walnuts in a suitcase, put it in gear and took off out of there as though a herd of elephants was on their tail. And they didn't stop whooping it up until they pulled off the road next to the dead Dodge and an astonished Hosteen Tull who greeted them with his mouth hanging wide open!

They cleaned everything out of the Dodge, including Jose. They moved him to the center of the front seat of the Ford Monster and strapped him in. The big crew cab afforded them plenty of room for everyone. Now they needed a place to hide out and regroup. The fuel tank of the monster was a hair below full.

Tavon stepped on the accelerator and away they went. Maybe disaster could be turned into good fortune!

00000000

They were thirty miles out of Flagstaff and deep into the desert. The roadbed was rough, lacking in maintenance and upkeep, lacking in everything except chuckholes and eroded, washed-out patches which threw the big truck roughly from side to side. They had listened to rap CDs for a time, but they quickly grew old, and Tavon turned them off. Whoever owned this truck certainly had great taste in home design, but it sucked when it came to the choice of music. Then they stumbled on Satellite Radio and they chilled out on Hard Rock.

The boys in the back were beginning to nod off when Mark Lansa suddenly pointed to something at the side of the road and said, "Look!"

Tavon hit the brakes and pulled off the road. Kurtz and Jeffries came awake with muffled curses: "What the fuck … ??" A dome-shaped shanty of some kind loomed in the headlights. Tavon cut the wheel and drove slowly toward it.

"What _is_ that?"

They stared. It was a crude stone and mud hut. It was not large, but neither was it small. The Ford's headlights glanced off one side and reached beyond it. The rough-hewn rails of a small paddock loomed out of the darkness like a shipwreck caught suddenly in the lights of an ocean submersible, illuminating it piece by piece. A glint of eyes rose out of the darkness and moved closer to the fence. The shaggy head of a large, rangy paint mustang emerged over the top rails of the fence. The animal was snorting and prancing angrily at having his sleep disturbed.

As the lights passed by the door of the hut, Tavon saw that it was sealed with large wooden planks. Hosteen said, "Don't stop! Pull around back."

Tavon did so, and found that there was a hole knocked out of the wall, stones scattered about randomly.

"Someone died in this place," Mark muttered beside him.

Tavon turned to look at the younger man. "How do you know?" He growled.

"Navajo custom to seal the door and knock a hole in the North wall when someone dies inside. Something about ghosts … 'Chindi', they call them." Mark replied.

"Ghosts? They believe in _ghosts?_ Fuck! And I thought I'd already heard all the crazy shit about you stupid savages!" Randall scoffed.

"How would you like to eat your Goddamn undershorts, asshole?" Lansa snarled. "Not all of us believe in the same things … a lot like you 'stupid' white men!"

Tavon knew that Mark also was getting tired of the Texan's continuing snide remarks about their heritage. "Hopi have very different beliefs," Mark continued hotly. "It does not mean they are wrong."

"How about if we all shut up and get the boss inside," Tavon said. He came out the driver's door and reached back to unfasten Suarez's seat belt. The man's limp body fell sideways into his arms and Tavon grasped him by the shoulders. "How about somebody coming over here and lift his legs out! Let's get him inside." His words spurred the others into action. They half carried, half dragged their boss inside the hut and placed him on the only cot in the single room.

"What now?" Randall Kurtz whined. "Suarez is the only one who knows who the hell the contact dude is, and where the hell he's at … and right now Suarez ain't sayin' much of nothin'!"

"Shut up and let me think!" Tavon snapped. Hosteen Tull was really the only one among them who had any prior knowledge of the lay of the land, and it had been a long time since Hosteen had even ventured out here. Tavon looked at Hosteen in a questioning manner. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

"Pretty close to Tuba City, I think," Tull replied. "We can't go there. We're probably all over the damn TV by now … but there is this run-down excuse for a hospital about twenty miles north of here. If we can grab a doctor or two and haul their asses out here, we can have 'em fix Jose up and then get rid of 'em. Nobody will ever notice that a couple of Navajo docs went missing …"

"Sounds like an okay plan to me," Mark answered with a nod.

Erik added his own slight nod, and Randall smirked a reluctant agreement. "Bring some Injun sawbones to the desert for a house call, huh? That's a good one, Tonto!" He smirked again and spit against the wall.

"How're we going to convince a couple of docs to come with us?" Tavon asked.

Erik had the obvious answer as he pulled his weapon from his belt and hefted it with practiced ease. "Whaddaya mean, 'convince'? We'll make 'em an offer they can't refuse!"

Tavon looked down. He didn't like where this was going. Hacking he loved, but killing wasn't his thing. He had a family to worry about. "Fine. But I'm not carrying a gun."

"Suit yourself!"

They left Hosteen behind with Jose again and the other four got back in the truck. "Strap in!" Tavon said. You got a lot of miles to cover."

It was to be a silent ride as they started out in the direction of Reservation Hospital.

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	9. Chapter 9

-Chapter 9 –

"Gray Fox and Tinker Bell"

The final conventioneer signed the final registration form and was shown to her accommodations by a little past noon. Sonny and his staff members were finally able to sit down and relax to catch their breaths and look around at the trash pile that was the dining room. Spilled food and coffee made the floor a virtual road hazard. Sheets of crumpled office papers, paper napkins, plastic utensils, and torn paper plates filled every trash receptacle full-to-overflowing, and the tables all looked slightly like miniature battlefields after a skirmish in the trenches. People in soiled white scrubs leaned on or sat in chairs, propped their elbows on counters and tables, and stood by twos and threes in every open doorway.

Dr. Suni Tse sat at a table with his head in his hands, a little overwhelmed by the events of the day, and still, it had only begun. Beside him, Dr. James Wilson, his tee shirt and jeans smeared with coffee, catsup, egg goo and cooking oil, sat with his chin in a sticky open palm and drummed on the table with the fingers of his left hand. His fingernails were blackened with coffee grounds and frying pan residue. His fingers were wrinkled like prunes from hours immersed in elbow-deep dishwater. "I'd say that was a … rather successful breakfast, Bro Redskin!"

Sonny tilted his head to the right and stared at his old college chum with irony in his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "But guess what, Bro Paleface! Now it's time for lunch, and we still have a mess to clean up!"

Wilson sat up straight and looked down for his watch, which he'd forgotten to rescue from the shelf over the kitchen sink. "Oh damn. What time is it?"

Behind them, Nikki and Nola leaned over their shoulders. "It's 12:30, boys," Nikki said, "and already the natives are getting restless."

Sonny smiled. "Let's get this mess cleaned up and out to the burner. They can do cold cuts for lunch … sandwiches, chips, fruit, iced tea, lemonade. Everyone can serve themselves." He tapped the women on the noses to get them to stand back, then pushed himself to his feet wearily. "Hey everybody!" He called to the staff members standing around. "Let's clean this place up and get ready for lunch."

Willingly, they gathered and began to dispose of the breakfast residue.

Rema was still in the kitchen when Wilson returned for his watch, and she handed it to him across the counter that was still piled full of pots and pans. "Here you go, Jimmy. I thought you'd soon be out here looking for this." She inclined her head toward the back of the kitchen, past the area where she had joined Gregg House for breakfast, and where their plates, coffee cups, utensils and the chef's stool still stood abandoned. "I put your friend 'Gray Fox' in Sonny's office a couple of hours ago. Gave him the recliner and the remote and …"

Wilson cocked his head quizzically. "My friend … who??"

She smiled pixie-like. "Your friend," she said. "House. 'Gray Fox' … because he _is_ a 'fox', you know! Grrrr … a beautiful Gray Fox! He doesn't know I call him that yet, but he will. We had quite an interesting conversation this morning." She hesitated a few seconds, watching Jimmy's face run through a curious range of emotions.

"You call Gregory House _'Gray Fox'?_ He'll have your head on a stick if you ever tell him that!" Wilson's disbelieving grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Nah … he won't. He'll like it." She smiled mischeviously. "I think I could get away with pretty much anything with him."

She watched his jaw drop and she smiled again. "Yeah, really. He's a darling once you get under that thick skin of his."

Wilson's jaw dropped further. "A … what did you say? A 'darling?' You must have talked to a different House than the one I know!" He exclaimed. "Tall skinny guy? Looks a lot like a grizzly bear on a bad day … limps on the right hind paw. A 'darling'? Good Lord! And … when you were having this conversation with him … was he unconscious?"

"Oh no … conscious and breathing and madder than a wet hen … but I used a little bit of feminine wiles on him, and he came around. He gave me a really sweet compliment, Jimmy."

"_What?_" Wilson could not seem to overcome his incredulity.

"He said I reminded him of his boss!" Her eyes twinkled at the parade of expressions continuing to pass across James' exquisite features. For a change he was speechless, and his handsome face with its wide brown eyes made him look like an astonished seven-year-old.

Rema turned serious. "His leg is giving him fits." She said finally. "I think you should know that. He almost went down twice while he stood out here. He ate his breakfast sitting on that chef's stool, and I brought him some crutches. There's no way he should be in the middle of a crowd. He _should_ be using the wheelchair, but his face turned three shades of purple when I even mentioned it. Sonny's office is through that door and down the hall to the right, first door on the left. I think you should go to him … check and see if he needs anything. I've been leaving him alone. There's a recliner, and of course he's got the TV. He may also need his friend. Go!"

He stared at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded quickly a few times, then turned and walked away in the direction of the dining room where the sounds of a large-scale garbage disposal operation wafted back from the double doors. Wilson recalled telling House that he would have bet Rema would put him on crutches. It did not please him to be proven right.

Gregg sat in the recliner with his eyes closed, but Wilson knew he was not asleep. His right sneaker was off, tossed on the floor, and the crutches were propped across his lap.

"Anything good on the tube?" Wilson asked offhand.

"Naw … just a lot of Saturday crap." House opened his eyes a slit and regarded his friend with a wrinkled nose. "You look like somebody threw you head first into a vat of sheep dip!" He observed wryly. "You smell a little like it too."

Wilson sighed and propped his hands on his hips, just as he always did when he couldn't figure out what else to do with them. "Thanks," he said. "I needed that … like I need another layer of cooking grease on my pants!"

"What do you want, Wilson? I was about to go to sleep."

"You'll forgive me if I don't indulge you …"

"Yeah … well. I'm just a little south of useless around here right now. About the most I can do is stay out of everyone's way. Did Tinker Bell tell you where to find me?"

Wilson frowned. It seemed as though juvenile nicknames were being flashed around at will. "I'm assuming you mean Rema Marks?"

"Yeah. Her. The little Hershey Bar one with the attitude."

"Oh brother! You should get a load of what she calls you!"

"What? 'Sex on Crutches'?"

Wilson snorted. "'Ass-on-Crutches' might be more appropriate." He shifted his weight and walked a little closer to the recliner. "Do you need anything? Everyone is here now, and the staff is ready to begin setting up for lunch. I need to get back."

House shook his head and returned his attention to the TV. "I don't need anything. I'm fine. Go do what you have to do."

Wilson hesitated. "I really wish you'd stop with that idiotic 'I'm fine' stuff. You're not fine." He could not stop himself from reaching across, laying two fingers on the pressure point where Gregg's foot met his ankle. The pulse was strong, but there was puffiness present that was obvious even through the black sock. "Sore?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Okay, be a jerk. Right now I've got to go. I'll see you later." Wilson turned on his heel and strode out of the room, angry with House and with himself.

It was Rema, of course, who brought him lunch. Ham and cheese sandwich slathered with mustard, a stack of BBQ chips, coconut crème pie and a glass of iced tea with mint that seemed so tall that it went all the way up to _there_! She set the tray in his lap and he had no choice but to straighten the chair and sit up. She re-extended the platform so his legs would not hang down. "Foot hurts, doesn't it?" No nonsense; a straightforward question.

He studied her face for a moment, looking for signs of patronizing. Her eyes held to his own, steady and uncompromising. "Yeah," he finally admitted. "More than it should."

"May I touch you?"

"Why?"

"Because," she said, "you have the pillow in the wrong place. You're so used to the pain in your leg that you didn't even notice it's cutting off the circulation below your knee. No wonder it hurts!"

He sighed. "Unhh … go ahead."

Gently, Rema lifted his leg and repositioned the pillow at the exact center of his slightly bent knee. "Wait a few minutes and see if that isn't better." She placed the flat of her right hand on his instep and began to manipulate the pressure points in his swollen foot with the left. He flinched the first few times she touched him, but then relaxed into the sensations. Her hands were smaller than Wilson's, but she worked the tendons in much the same manner. Amazingly, the discomfort began to abate. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite, studying her with a steeply raised eyebrow until she laughed in ironic appreciation. "And you're a doctor! 'Physician Heal Thyself!'"

"Yeah … my bad," he said around a mouthful of ham, cheese and bread. "You're okay, Tinker Bell!"

She laughed again, in delight. "Jimmy told me you called me that. I like it. Did he tell you what I called you?"

"Unhh … no. He was not too happy with me when he left."

"I guess best friends do a lot of arguing with each other, don't they?" It was more a statement than a question. "'Gray Fox'."

He frowned. "Why?" And took another bite of sandwich.

"Gray, for the silver streaks in your hair. Fox … well … because you are!"

He glared. "I'm a cool cat, but not a gray fox! You need glasses!"

"Huh uh. I don't think so. When was the last time you looked in a mirror? You are one of the sexiest men I ever saw. Never mind the cane … the crutches … whatever. They're just window dressing. Check it out sometime. This old broad knows what she's talking about!" She pulled a face at him, and then turned around to go. "I've got to go help Sonny and the rest of the staff with lunch. Enjoy yours, and I'll see you later."

His last bite of sandwich lay in his mouth un-chewed while his eyes followed every wiggle of her tight little fanny as it undulated away from him and out the door.

00000000

House ate the sandwich and the pie and drank part of the tea. His foot was feeling a lot better. He let the tray sit where it was and muted the TV, pushing the chair back as far as it would go. He was tired, washed out, bored and discouraged. His leg still pounded, and there was a single Vicodin still in the pocket of his jeans. He dug it out and palmed it into his mouth. After a time he slept.

He awoke at 2:45 p.m. The bruise on his ass ached dully, and the one on the adductor muscle of his thigh was accompanying it in rhythm. The rest of him felt halfway decent. He decided if he sat around much longer, he would have to be carried out of there on a stretcher.

Gingerly he sat up, being mindful of the dinner tray that still rested across his lap. All the ice in the mint tea had melted, and the tray itself was swamped beneath a puddle of condensation. He picked it up with both hands, leaned over the side of the chair and set it carefully on the floor.

House yawned and scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping away the remnants of sleep. He needed a shave. One layer of scruff he could live with, but he realized he hadn't touched his Remington in three days! He recalled the time Lisa Cuddy had scoffed at what she'd called his "… living-under-a-bridge look". If he let it go much longer, he would soon look like a forty-six-year-old waif.

He laughed mirthlessly. Waif on crutches! One shoe off! Homeless and destitute. Unloved, unwanted, crippled. Tin cup in hand. Smelling of _Vin Rose_ in the gutters of Princeton. He snickered for a moment, feeling a sting of unaccustomed self-pity at the idiotic thought pictures forming in his mind.

Stop it, House! Get a grip! 

He pulled the chair forward and dropped his feet to the floor. The crutches rattled across his lap and he stared at them with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Two little bumps to his leg! Two little _freaking_ bumps, neither of them worth more than a cuss word or two, and immediately forgotten by someone with two healthy legs. Two _little bumps_ against two non-threatening, non-dangerous objects, had put him on _crutches_! He was completely unable to do more than hobble pathetically on a limb that had lost its strength and left him with damaged nerve endings that hurt like hell if he even turned slightly in a manner it wouldn't allow. The leg dictated his entire life!

Feeling sorry for himself wasn't usually something he indulged in when he didn't have an audience. It was no fun to call himself "Cripple", "Gimp", "Limpy", if no one was there to listen. When he was alone however … those were the times when the curse words flew. Those were the nights he hammered the living hell out of his piano; the nights the Scotch bottle stood half empty on the end table and the Vicodin vial spilled onto the sounding board, while its white plastic lid skittered away on the floor somewhere and he … too wasted to look for it.

Here, among a crowd of virtual strangers on an Indian Reservation in the middle of nowhere, he had no emotional outlets. No way to vent his anger and frustration and pain the way he would have liked. Out here, he was going to have to act like a doctor! He was not known at all, except by very few, and only one of those with any real vision of the man he had once been, and the pitiful pain-in-the-ass he had become. There was no one who gave a damn about his volatile reputation, and no one here to intimidate like there was in New Jersey. His fame to these people, had nothing to do with his personality.

Gregory House promised himself that he would behave like a doctor! He would put on his professional face and lend his talents to this young Navajo physician who had founded a necessary hospital for the benefit of his people, and who had transformed an old barbed-wire factory; later a military warehouse; later an abandoned shell encroached upon by the desert, the winds and the sand; and now a place of healing. He himself had ended up as a patient here, even before he'd seen the place from a vertical position!

How ironic! Someone or some_thing_ was telling him something.

House wanted to scream and curse and throw things and rail against the world for making him this pathetic creature who, in this raw setting, was less than useless to everyone, especially himself. He wanted to throw the goddamned crutches against one of the ancient brick walls until they shattered into a hundred pieces. But he could not. He was a doctor, and he was going to act like one.

He'd promised himself he would do nothing to humiliate the kind and caring Jim Wilson, his one true friend in the world, and he would play his part as a gentleman also, even if it killed him. He was immediately sorry he had made that vow, but he would not go back on it, even in his own mind.

Gregg sighed, a shuddering breath that rose from deep inside. He had not seen Wilson in hours, and it occurred to him that James might be sick of his attitude, sick of his anger and sick of his refusal to do anything except sit in seclusion and suck his figurative thumb. James had the consolation of other friends surrounding him this week, and need not be bothered catering to a middle-aged "four-year-old" when people with smiles on their faces offered him a much-needed lift to shore up his own sagging spirits, which House's continued anger had tried to crunch underfoot.

The words of House's Dad came back to him again: "Fish or cut bait, Gregory! You can't sit around with your thumb up your ass all day!" House pulled a face, listening to his own thoughts. Between sucking one thumb and having the other stuck up his butt, his shoulder muscles would be tied in knots for weeks!

Yeah, House … snap out of it! Get real and get a grip! 

House placed the arm canes firmly on the floor in front of the chair and pushed himself clumsily to his feet. His leg protested as usual, and he found that his knee would not straighten completely. He took a halting step forward, testing his balance all over again, and it got a little easier with subsequent movement. He opened the door of the office and looked both ways.

There was bright light comin from only one direction, and he turned toward it. The end of the hallway opened into a big room, which led to the kitchen where he had breakfasted that morning with Rema Marks: Tinker Bell. He could not maneuver through that narrow passage with these things! He would end up on his ass in ten seconds.

Only one other choice! He turned around and monitored his pace carefully. The floors were clean, fortunately, and free of obstructions. He began to feel his gait loosen somewhat, and his lightly placed foot met the old varnished wood in a gathering of rhythm. He felt the muscles in his shoulders leveling out to take his weight, and the pain in his leg receded gradually. The Vicodin he'd taken earlier was working.

Thirty paces brought him to the brightly lit reception area at the main entrance with its big round admissions desk and large waiting room. He let his gaze wander to the front door and was greeted beyond the wide front windows by two of the only trees he had seen since they'd left Flagstaff the afternoon before. He had no idea what the hell they were.

He nodded at the three female receptionists behind the desk and then ignored them when they frowned at his difficult gait and ragged appearance. House moved past the desk and a smattering of people in the auxiliary reception area who paid him no attention. His eyes were drawn to a back corner of the waiting room where a dark-wood, ivory-keyed old upright piano stood proudly against the wall. _Gulbransen_! Wow! Wilson had mentioned there might be a piano in the dining room. They had moved it.

He felt a smile stealing across his face, and he wondered if it might possibly be in tune. It was doubtful. He continued down the far hallway toward the sound of voices in the distance. He decided he was approaching the front door to the dining room. He slowed, moving more cautiously to keep from being mowed down by anyone hell-bent on plowing through into the hallway. There were double doors here also, but they were both propped open.

Gregg approached, barely touching down on the toes of his right foot, letting himself lean forward on the crutches, sticking his head around one of the doors, automatically searching for James Wilson.

"House!"

Wilson's voice called to him from the area near the back door where he had been sitting with Nikki and Sonny, the big Burmese at their feet as they talked and joked with other convention-goers. Gregg was astounded that the dining room actually held this many people. There must be over one hundred bodies scattered around the room, if you counted members of the hospital's staff in their white scrubs. Most of the gathered crowd stood or sat with cups of coffee or tea, or cans of soda and bottles of water. He found himself with a half smile on his face, and an unfamiliar desire to join them and become a part of the spirit that seemed to pervade the space with that mysterious beckoning he had felt from this place before.

A strange feeling of longing swept over him as he saw James break away from his place near the door and come toward him eagerly, hand out, not in support of his lameness, but in a more subtle display of pride at being in his presence.

"There you are!" Wilson's hand touched Gregg's arm briefly as he scanned the faces in the room and saw them all abandon the conversations they'd been engaged in and quiet down by degrees.

House was beginning to feel a little unsteady. It had been a painful journey through the hallways of the building, and he needed to sit down! He was a little weak, and he felt himself hop-stepping a bit to retain his balance. Beside him, Wilson stiffened, aware of the problem. From the corner of his eye, Gregg saw Sonny Tse move away toward the furthest side of the room. But Wilson was saying something now:

"Folks, I'd like to introduce you to the man you've all been hearing about. This is the guy who's been standing a lot of east coast hospitals on their collective ear! I'd like you to meet Dr. Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostic Medicine, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

There were hoots and whistles and polite applause and words of greeting and welcome, but Gregg was struggling, his good leg getting ready to buckle. He felt movement in the air to his right, and Sonny Tse swooped up behind him with the wheelchair. As much as he hated the damned things, he'd never been so happy to see one. He sighed in relief as Sonny and James eased him backward into it. He smiled shyly, averting his eyes for a moment, not knowing what else to do. Then he looked up and into the crowd as James took the arm-canes from his hands.

"I wonder if this counts as having been 'put in my place'?" He grumbled.

They were raising the leg-rest on the right side while he caught his breath, and a smattering of nervous laughter greeted him from the people in the front row.

Sonny leaned over with a grin, and a cascade of black hair fell from his shoulders. "I could have sworn I heard Jimmy call you the 'Chief' of something! What I'd like to know is … are you a _real_ Medicine Man, Paleface?"

House looked up into the twinkling black eyes, and wrinkled his nose. He must remember later to thank Sonny for coming to the rescue of his battered dignity. "I think so … if you don't run over me first with this damned wheelchair, Redskin!" He snorted.

Sonny laughed his infectious laugh and stalked back to his place at the door. James, however, pulled up a chair and sat down at the table by his side.

Gregg looked up and studied the sea of faces surrounding him. "Thank you for the welcome," he said, "unceremonious as it was."

Their eyes were upon him, and he had their attention. He turned his head to the left and acknowledged the shining eyes of his best friend. He winked. Wilson rolled his eyes, and the audience laughed appreciatively.

House took a deep breath and launched into the story he knew he _had_ to tell if he were ever to dissuade these people from the need to make him their pet, their wounded puppy, their hurt one. They were, after all, doctors. It was in them to nurture. So he told them of the pain.

_The pain …_

He compared it first, to the thunder of cannons in the "1812 Overture".

He related the infarction experience to running a gauntlet of flame that caused his nerve endings to burn with the fiery hell of a blacksmith pounding his hammer on a red-hot horseshoe.

And he likened the escalating pain to a gristmill, grinding stones into gravel, a meat grinder that turned flesh to puree.

Somewhere in the progression of the story about the repeated misdiagnoses and the chaos of the crash carts while he lay dead for a brief eternity, the silence in the room was like the vacuum of space.

Across the room, Amiga, the Burmese, left her master's side with a strange whimpering sound. Her doggy toenails echoed on the bare wooden floor until she stopped quietly by the big wheel of Gregg's chair, sat down, and laid her head gently across his knees with a sigh.

There was an answering sigh from the roomful of enraptured people.

When House finished his story with a few funny anecdotes from his long months in physical rehab, the room began to breathe again. Coffee cups and soda cans were moving around on the tables, and snatches of conversation were beginning to lift into the air.

Finally, Dr. House pinned them all with one of his steely stares.

"Medicine," he growled, "is an imperfect science, an imperfect art! Humanity is over-rated. Patients lie. They lie … and then they threaten to sue us when our efforts to make them better lead to something entirely different from what they expected.

"They hide the truth from us in an effort to cover up old transgressions they don't want their loved ones to know about … and we doctors usually take the blame for not being able to read their minds.

"_But_ … and it's a very big 'but' … their bodies … if we know how to look in the right directions … _never lie!_ And we can find the truth, if we go deep enough. It's a Sherlock Holmes puzzle, and damned hard to pull off. But we do it every day.

"As I sit here before you, I'm living proof of one of medicine's worst failures. I've paid a price, and I wage a fight every day I keep on living … trying to keep it from happening to anyone else!

"But life is like that. It's not fair, and nobody ever told us it was. Every one of us in this room has killed or maimed someone under our care … or has come pretty damned close. The Hippocratic oath tells us: 'First, Do No Harm!' Medicine gives each of us the option to keep trying to get it right.

"No one was out to hurt me intentionally when this …"

House spread his arms wide, encompassing his leg and the wheelchair, "…punched my running lights out for awhile. I just happened to be one of those who drew the short straw.

"It happens!

"_C'est la vie_!" He shrugged, knowing that everything else was still far beyond man's ability to reason.

When he finished speaking, his right hand was on Amiga's head and his left one visibly trembling on Wilson's arm. "Thank you."

They were all on their feet at once.

They kept their polite distance. They did not patronize him. They applauded until the room vibrated. He smiled briefly in an almost-embarrassed manner, and hung his head until his chin touched his chest. His leg was about to explode. Wilson rose from his chair and quickly disappeared. Gregg knew he'd gone to their quarters for the Vicodin bottle. He clenched his fists and spoke to those who waited to talk to him, and he was gracious, more so than he'd ever imagined he could be.

He palmed two Vicodin that Wilson brought with him from their room. He took them both and drank the glass of water Wilson brought from the kitchen. And he waited for the pain to ease away.

It didn't.

Shortly afterward, Sonny, Nikki and Rema rounded up the conventioneers and took them on an extended walking tour of the hospital's grounds. Check out the sand lice and the scorpions and the Gila monsters and the sidewinders …

Wilson rode up in the rumbly old elevator with House, still in the wheelchair. Wilson helped House get undressed and get into bed.

Wilson sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled House into his strong arms, holding him close against the pain, and rocked his rigid body slowly back and forth until finally, he slept.

00000000

92


	10. Chapter 10

- Chapter 10 -

"Confessions"

It was barely daylight, but the desert was alive with the sounds of morning.

Beyond the perimeter fence of the hospital compound, birdcalls and the nervous twitter of small animals filled the air with the sounds of nature's conversations. Giant Saguaro cactus held dominion with great stone monoliths and their smaller neighbors, the Little-leaf Palo Verdes, Desert Ironwoods, Catclaw, Creosote Bush, and bursage communities that stretched for miles. Desert breezes carried the rustling of the tumbleweed and the mesquite and the cry of an eagle high aloft, riding thermal currents with outstretched wings, searching for breakfast on the desert floor.

Reservation Hospital was ever wakeful, as hospitals always are. Night shift ward attendants, RNs, LPNs and night Attendings were making final rounds in preparation for the morning shift, which would take over at 7:00 a.m. There were sixty seven patients on the rolls on this day in August: sixteen in the men's wing, ten in the women's wing, and forty one in surgical, maternity and general wards and private and semi-private rooms on the second and third floors.

The rumble of the old elevator reverberated dully, and footsteps echoing through the walls from the staircase beside the elevator shaft sounded like someone tossing tennis balls down from the upper floors. On the southeast wing of the second floor, the window shade was not pulled down far enough to keep the first rays of the fiery desert sun from striking Gregory House full in the face as it peeped over the eastern horizon. He awoke with a mumbled curse when the insides of his eyelids began to absorb the light like two glasses of black cherry Kool Aid.

"Unmfff … fuck …"

Across the room in the other bed, James Wilson rolled over, fully awake at the muffled sound. He sat up and shook his mop of honey auburn hair, instantly ready to get over there. Gregg had spent most of the night catnapping, restless and in pain, and James had spent the same amount of time with his arms gripping the other man's shoulders, steadying him, keeping him distracted with pointless conversation and senseless ramblings, just to keep House's focus off the insistent fire in his leg. Only at 3:00 a.m. did his friend finally shut down and find a measure of sleep, enough for Wilson to ease out from under him and retreat to his own pillow and blankets. Now it was barely 6:00, and Gregg was already awake.

"Still sore?"

A pile of bed pillows lay crunched between the head of the bed and the wall where House was propped, half sitting, half lying down, looking frayed and uncomfortable. He turned his head a few inches to the right and glanced in Wilson's direction. "I'm not sure yet. Just had to get the damned sun out of my eyes."

"You're not sure?" Wilson sat the rest of the way up in alarm. "Are you experiencing numbness?" He asked worriedly. He crossed to House's bed and moved beyond it, pulling the shade down halfway. "Does it hurt or not?"

House shook his head slightly and rolled his eyes. "Slow down there, Buckaroo!" He drawled. "Right at the moment there are no sledge hammers in my head, no injun arrows sticking out of my back. My leg hurts, but it isn't pounding like a busted tree branch on a tin roof. You don't mind if I just lay here and enjoy being a blob for a few minutes, do you?"

Wilson dropped his head slowly and the flicker of an exasperated smile scrolled across his features. "Have a go!" He said softly, returning to his own side of the room.

"What time did I finally conk out on you last night?"

"You mean this morning? About 3:00 a.m."

"Jesus! Did you get any sleep at all? The last thing I remember is you hanging onto me like I was a sick little kid, and telling me some goofy story about the dog you had when you were eight years old …"

Wilson chuckled a bit. "Well, it did feel somewhat like telling a bedtime story to a little kid … a _very_ little kid!"

"Dammit, Wilson, I was trying to be funny, and you're insulting me."

"Yeah? Well, I was trying to be serious! You were really hurting …"

"Wilson?"

"Huh?"

"Thanks. I mean it. That couple of hours was the best sleep I've had in about a month."

Wilson hardly knew what to say. The desert air must be affecting his friend's brain. The sand must be blasting the rust from his heart and the barnacles from his soul. Had the man just said "thanks" for the second time in twenty-four hours? House never spoke this way, even at the best of times, even when he was too damned drunk to hold his head up.

"You know what I told you the other day," he finally answered. "Anything you need … whenever you need it."

House couldn't handle any more kindness. "Where the hell is my damned cane?"

"Your … _crutches _… are on the floor … at the foot of your bed. Are you ready to get up?"

"Yeah. I hear ya. Gotta pee. And I've gotta shower and shave! I stink!"

"I wasn't going to say anything …"

"Wilson, get me the fuckin' cane!"

Wilson grinned. "That's the Gregg House we all know and love! But no cane yet! Crutches!" He got out of bed and padded across the room. "Want to take your meds first?"

"Yeah." House glared at him with eyes of blue ice.

Wilson did not flinch, but dug in the blue sports jacket for the Vicodin, extracted a pill and held it out. House plucked it from the outstretched palm and swallowed it in a well-practiced motion. Just as quickly, Wilson was kneeling at the side of the bed, tossing the jacket haphazardly across the rumpled sheets. "Scoot over and let me lift your leg down." It was an order rather than a request.

House moved his hips closer to the edge of the bed, immediately suppressing a hiss of pain between his teeth. Wilson waited, his hand gentle and warm on House's shinbone. "Easy."

House nodded, holding his breath.

"Ready?" Wilson asked. "Slide your other leg over and sit up slow."

Gradually House swung around, and then his feet were flat on the floor. Wilson looked up, questioning.

"Hurts," House grunted. "But not like yesterday. Maybe I can really use the cane instead of the freakin'…"

"_No!_" Wilson crunched a face. "Sorry … no! It's too soon. Rema's orders. Maybe tomorrow. Today, crutches!"

"Ah fuck! So hand me the damned things already, will you?"

Wilson sighed. "Ahhh … you're sounding more like yourself every minute. I was beginning to think somebody might've sneaked a ringer in on me. Dagwood Bumstead, maybe!" He grinned.

"Fuck you, Wilson!"

"You sound more like yourself with every passing second. Can you stand?" The silliness was suddenly over.

"Yeah, I think so."

00000000

Two men walking down a narrow hallway in their skivvies, one of them on crutches and barely ambulatory, the other burdened with bathrobes for two, tossed over a shoulder and hanging down the back, was a strange sight. Especially when the man in the rear with the bathrobes kept trying to reach out a steadying hand to the man on crutches.

They made it to the shower room and separated. House approached one of the urinals and propped a crutch against the wall. He manhandled himself with his left hand and directed a hard yellow stream against the porcelain. Wilson continued further and unloaded the pair of terry cloth robes from his shoulder by flinging them over the top of one of the toilet stalls. He then went into the stall and closed the door.

House stuffed himself back into his shorts and backed cautiously away from the urinal. He turned around in the narrow space and moved further into the room, passing the toilets and proceeding to the showers. "My God, Wilson! What the hell crawled into you and died?"

"Mother Nature does good work sometimes," Wilson grunted mirthlessly. "Mind your own business! You don't exactly smell like a rose either."

House heard the sound of the toilet paper roll clattering out a long stream of tissue. "Jesus, man!" He grumbled. "I dunno which is worse … opening a window to let the stink _out_ … or the desert wind _in_!"

"Well, try not to burden yourself with scientific conclusions!" The sound of the toilet flushing punctuated the statement, and the staccato snicker of House's predictable reaction echoed from the shower walls.

Wilson walked out of the toilet and came face to face with House, nude on crutches in front of him. The man's boxer shorts were in a puddle around his feet, his painfully thin body, all sharp angles and dented ridges. Only the corded muscles across his shoulders kept him from looking emaciated. The sharp outline of his hip bones hinted at some obscure "prisoner-of-war" scenario, and Wilson gasped at the unexpected shock of the deeply scarred thigh and dwindling calf muscles of his right leg. He had not seen his friend au natural in years. The last time that happened, Gregg's body had been tanned, slender and graceful, both legs muscled and powerful.

But now …

Now … 

Wilson looked up and met the emptiness in the guarded blue eyes. "You did this to me on purpose, didn't you?" His tone was accusatory, his breath caught in his throat. He could feel a bothersome cramp churning to life in his belly. He swallowed convulsively, hoping House wouldn't notice. "Well, it certainly worked if you meant to shock me …" Quickly he cast his gaze aside.

Gregg looked down at the floor, avoiding the accusation in Wilson's eyes. "That wasn't my intention. It's not as though I'm trying to 'display the goods' or anything like that. But I know you worry your ass off about me, and I guess I thought it was time for you to see the damage. It's not like you've never seen stuff like this before …"

"House …"

The tousled head came up, eyes silently questioning. "Sorry. I should never have …"

"House … this is a shower room, and I'm in here with you because it's necessary. I'd have seen it anyway, and it's not like you've hidden it from me in the past. It's just that I've never seen you so … brutally frank about it. Is there something you're not telling me in words?"

"No! Nothing like that, I swear! I just needed you to see it in the open, and this seemed to be the right time. What I didn't want was for you to have to sneak looks at me in the shower and hope I wouldn't notice you staring. I didn't want to shock you with what you'd see on your own.

"This way you know what's under the baggy clothes that don't fit me anymore, and what's behind the meals I throw away … and the booze I don't … and the pills I need … even to make a dent in the pain. I honestly believe that someday it's possible I could end up in front of a Twelve-Step group somewhere and saying: 'My name is Gregg, and I'm a drug addict and an alcoholic' … I don't think that'll happen, really, 'cause that kind of crap isn't my thing. But just in case you ever wondered …"

"Ah, House …" This time Wilson's words did catch in his throat. He moved close to the other man, lifted the crutches out of his hands one at a time, supporting his body with an arm around his waist. The crutches fell away and then House was in his embrace.

"I still think somebody really slipped a ringer in on me," Wilson whispered after awhile. "I have never seen you so … for want of a better word … 'mellow' … in all the years I've known you. Care to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing. I just decided to rein in the crap for a week, since this conference is so important to you, to Sonny, Nikki, Rema … all the others. This place has a kind of funny undercurrent to it; keeps drawing me in. Must be the 'Injun Magic'. I can't explain it. I'm not even gonna try. These are people I could get to like, I think." He sighed, body trembling with the effort of protracted standing. "Just don't expect it to last all the way back to New Jersey! There is no fucking magic in New Jersey! So enjoy it while you got it!"

Wilson laughed softly, welcoming the brief return of the snark, feeling himself relaxing into the physical contact. He felt the tension in the other man's body. Gregg could not remain upright much longer.

"I get it," he said, finally. "If I mention a word of this to Cuddy or the kids, you'll deny it to your dying day. Now, what do you say we get you that shower and shave you've been bitching about?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Wilson helped him to the shower and stood close guard as he fought to maintain balance. Wilson soaped his body, rubbed shampoo into the unruly hair, and scrubbed the scruffy face and long arms. "God!" He complained. "You really do need a shave! This is like bathing a Billy goat!"

"Watch it!"

In the process, Jim Wilson felt a temporary sense of freedom from House's disability; the satisfaction of having earned House's respect, finally figuring out the man's reasons for standing naked before him in full vulnerability. Gregg had always known he was truly accepted by James Wilson, with all his warts and moles showing; all his faults and flaws taken as part of the whole in favor of the decent human being, which still resided deeply beneath House's bitter façade.

Gregg sat on the closed lid of one of the toilets after Wilson helped him in there, and Wilson assisted him as he dressed himself in gray sweat pants and shirt. He pulled gray socks and grey Nikes onto his feet and tied the laces. "Just wait'll Rema Marks sees you! You're beginning to look like the gray fox of her dreams, and she's gonna wanna jump your bones!"

House snickered. "Gray Fox and Tinker Bell! Wow! I hope nobody minds if I go out and get falling-down drunk first."

Wilson grinned. "I doubt you'd need to get drunk to fall down, House."

"Niiice!" Came the snarky reply.

He handed his friend the crutches from the floor outside the toilet stall. "Take these and go get your shave. Your Remington's on the shelf, and I have a bottle of 'Lectric Shave around there somewhere. I've got to get dressed. Will you be okay by yourself?" He shouldered into his own bathrobe as he spoke.

"Oh yeah. Be back to the room in a little while. I'm ready to run a marathon!"

"Oh you'd be great in a marathon. You'd be the last one over the railroad tracks before a train came along and cut your parade in half!"

The "Fuck you!" was mostly under his breath.

00000000

"You're _going_ to ride down in the elevator," Wilson said. "In the damn wheelchair! You'll please stay in it until we get to the dining room! After that, I'll give the crutches back. Okay?" Wilson's dark eyes bored into Gregg's with an intensity that gave no quarter.

House looked back with the patented glare that ordinarily would have melted iron pillars. This morning it was ineffective. Wilson's return stare never wavered, and House knew he had just lost one. There were times when he could lord it over Wilson and get away with it. But now and again, there was no denying this normally gentle, soft-spoken man's fierce will, and his ability to wield it when necessary. "Okay," he finally agreed. "I know when I'm getting my ass busted."

"Good!" James sat down on the edge of his bed to pull on his boots while House settled himself in the chair. Wilson was conscious of the bold scrutiny from across the room as his shoulder muscles flexed beneath the slate blue tee shirt. He'd pulled on a pair of his oldest, most comfortable blue jeans and his tawny hair rippled loose across his forehead like a field of waving grain. He looked up, wondering what House was thinking.

"You look comfortable," Gregg told him. "Why don't you take a set of jeans and tee-shirt to work and keep them in your locker. Go home to Julie looking just like that some night … and things might perk up between the two of you."

Wilson frowned, perplexed. He had not thought about Julie since they'd arrived here, and felt ill at ease being reminded of her now, especially by House, who didn't much care for her anyway. What was Gregg trying to tell him?

House must have seen a flicker of something in his eyes. The conversation was quickly dropped, and a guarded silence stretched out between them.

Wilson picked up the crutches and placed them carefully across House's lap. House switched them across one shoulder like a pair of field rifles, but said nothing further.

They moved out of the room and in the direction of the elevator.

A young man and a young woman preceded them in the hallway and waited by the elevator car, holding open the heavy door while Wilson pulled the chair inside. House looked up into their faces and scowled for a moment when he saw them both looking at him in amusement.

"Have we met?" He asked.

And then he knew.

The man reached out his hand to shake Gregg's, smiling in satisfaction. "We didn't realize who you were until last night, Dr. House … Dr. Wilson. My name is Alan Beckett, and this is my wife Samantha. We're both on staff at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. If you recall, we sat across from you on the U. S. Air flight from Newark to Phoenix. Small world?"

House clasped the man's hand firmly with his own. "I didn't realize until you spoke," he said. "You helped me when I fell … on the plane. And you escorted us out when we landed."

Wilson reached around the wheelchair to offer his hand as well. "Small world … I'll say!" He said. "I'm really glad to meet you both. If you don't mind my asking, what are your specialties?"

They both grinned. "Veterinary Medicine," they announced together.

Gregg's eyebrows rose and Wilson's mouth gaped. "Veterinarians?"

"Uh huh." They both laughed at their colleagues' puzzlement. "This is the Wild West, you know. There's a lot of livestock out here: horses, cattle, goats, pigs, chickens … and Amiga. She seems to have taken quite a liking to you, Dr. House."

Gregg found himself chuckling deep in his throat, and looked up at the sound of James echoing his delight and surprise. "It would never have occurred to me," House stated, "but it seems that your Redskin friend thought of everything. It makes sense. Even his dog is smarter than the average bear … and for some reason she _has_ taken a shine to me! Maybe I have cancer."

"House!" Wilson was indignant. "Cut that out!" It took a moment for the Becketts to realize that the man behind the wrinkled nose meant it as a joke.

By the time they'd all disembarked on the ground floor, they were becoming friends. Sam and Alan had the room just down the hall from them. The four of them made plans to breakfast together.

The dining room was buzzing with activity when the foursome entered. Wilson turned the wheelchair to the right and pushed it all the way to the southeastern wall, before he would allow House to get out of it. Gregg found that he was now able to place his foot flat on the floor and his leg would accept some of his weight before it began to fold beneath him. Every little bit helped, and he walked slowly, flanked by the others, into the center of the dining room.

Greetings drifted across from people at the tables; chairs scraping back, spoons dipping into serving dishes and silverware clanking on plates; coffee being poured and stirred, snatches of laughter and conversation making the place buzz like a beehive.

"Hi Doc!" …

"Morning, Gregg, morning Jim." …

"Hey Dr. House, how's it going?" …

"Hi Gray Fox. Wow! You shaved! Just look at you!"

"Hello, Beautiful Child … oh Jimmy, you are gorgeous!"

The last from Rema had them both scowling with embarrassment. More laughter hung in the air and they found themselves surrounded by friends they were just beginning to realize they had; professional people with cheerful respect, who gave Gregory House plenty of room to maneuver, but made no move to offer assistance he didn't ask for. Wilson pulled out a chair and House seated himself with a grunt, propping the crutches alongside his place at the table.

Samantha and Alan Beckett seated themselves to Gregg's right and Wilson's left, and the word got around quickly that they had all flown in on the same plane. Sonny and Nikki were both surprised by the fact. They could have saved them a stiff car-rental fee if they'd been aware of it at the time. However, as Samantha was quick to point out, none of them had had any inkling then, of the connection to come.

Breakfast was a casual affair with banter and laughter floating comfortably around the room, and plans being formulated for the workshops and formal addresses to be presented throughout the week. Wilson and House were both scheduled to speak that evening, one right after the other at the conclusion of the evening meal. At the back of the room, tall, slender Susan Carr, of the tinkling jewelry and inappropriate remarks, stood and hit the side of her water glass to gain attention.

"Excuse me …"

Conversation stilled as people turned to look at her. "My colleague, Alan Tam, has a suggestion …" she began. Her narrowed gaze scanned the room with a little less than enthusiasm.

"Yes, thanks." Sonny Tse acknowledged quickly. "Any suggestion is welcome around here."

Tall, shy and gangly Alan Tam stood up slowly. "I believe," he said, "that all our interests would be well served if the preparation of meals could be shared by everyone here, instead of being left to just a few, who never seem to be caught up with it."

Sonny stood up again and his dark eyebrows rose in interest. "Could you be a little more specific?" He asked.

"Well," Alan went on, "I'm not the best cook in the world, but I make a mean batch of spaghetti that I could whip up for all of us. And in conversation, Susan has told me that her own specialty is Chicken Barbados, which she is willing to prepare sometime.

It occurred to us that there may be others in this room who might be prevailed upon to offer their skills in the kitchen as well, and lighten the load for us all. Cooking for the patient population here, plus an extra hundred of us, seems a daunting task." He looked around the room for responses, but for the moment, silence reigned. "Just a suggestion …" He sat down.

For ten seconds, silence was heavy. Then it seemed as though everyone was talking at once. In the middle of the room, a beefy man with sparse brown hair stood and looked around to be acknowledged. The buzz tapered off as he volunteered himself to offer assistance. "My name's Mel Fierstein, Ophthalmologist, Cheyenne, Wyoming. I do some pretty awesome things with seafood, if I say so myself. You hand me the fish, and I'll hand you 'Loaves and Fishes' … even though I don't lean in that direction myself …"

His words drew appreciative laughter. After that, there were more offers than they could handle. There were volunteers for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Those without culinary skills offered to do the menial tasks: setup and cleanup. A skilled thoracic surgeon from Boston, Massachusetts even offered to run the clipper and stow the dishes as they came out the other end.

Alan Tam suddenly found himself the center of attention and was soon urged to fill in names and tasks in a spiral notebook. "This was supposed to be used for notes from the conference," he said with a puzzled look. "But I guess it's all part of the same plan, huh?"

The rest of the day passed in preparation for the workshops that would begin in the morning. The first little task force prepared a nutritious luncheon of Chef's Salad, Frozen yogurt and fresh fruit. Everyone bussed their own table settings and no one had any desire to leave the magical conviviality of the dining room for solitary pursuits.

Late afternoon found Gregory House at the piano in the waiting room. Actually, Gregg couldn't wait to get his hands on it. It was, as he'd feared, sadly out of tune, but it made the music even more interesting. It didn't sound that much different from the old pianos that had graced every saloon from Sacramento to San Antonio during the waning days of the Nineteenth Century.

House bullied the old keyboard with a cross between hillbilly and honky-tonk, and the yellowed ivory keys jumped happily beneath his dancing fingers and syncopated rhythms.

Hospital visitors in the big waiting room joined in to sing some of the old, familiar songs, and for awhile people left their cares behind in the joy of the music.

The best thing of all, James Wilson noted happily, was the smile that spread across Gregg House's face, transforming him from embittered cynic to cheerful clown as he was surrounded three-and-four deep, while his fingers brought forth melodies from the old instrument which probably hadn't been touched in years.

Wilson also took note of the change in Gregg's face with the distraction of his mind from the pain that was usually a constant. His expression was completely scrubbed of the misery that often rode there like a monkey on his back, and he was temporarily transformed into a creature of beauty and grace.

Suddenly, he was Gregory House as he'd been when Wilson first knew him: a fun-loving bundle of frenetic energy. Wilson found that there were sentimental tears rising close to the surface, and he had to look away.

He stared across the shoulders of Rema and Nola and Nikki, straight into the somber eyes of Sonny Tse, whose expression told him that his friend the Navajo physician knew exactly what he was feeling. Sonny backed away at that moment, and skirted the edge of the crowd to reappear beside Wilson's right shoulder. "You look like you could use someone at your back … the same way you stay so close to Gregg's," he said pointedly. "Are you all right, Paleface Bro?"

"'I'm fine' … as Gregg would say. Thanks, Redskin Bro. I was just thinking that this is the way he was when I first knew him. Happy, sarcastic, over-the-top with everything he did. I noticed that the group is looking at him in a different light this afternoon. They see Gregory House, musician, not Gregory House, crippled doctor. Right now, the crutches don't exist." Wilson's voice thickened, catching in his throat. "This is all he's ever wanted … acceptance! I do my best, but I can't give it to him by myself!"

Purposely, Sonny maneuvered the two of them further away from the boisterous crowd, closer to an empty section of the room. "You have it bad, Jimmy. I can feel your pain like a rock in my stomach. It's as bad as Gregg's, in a way. And he really doesn't know?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. That's the one thing about me where he has no clue. If he did, it would drive him away completely, and I couldn't stand that."

"How do you know?"

Wilson's look was horrified. "He isn't …"

"How … do you _know_?" Sonny's question was subtle, but insistent. "He has keen instincts, Jimmy. I've seen him look at you. If I may be so bold … it may not be all that one-sided. He's very needy, and he has no idea how to ask you for what he needs without believing he's enslaving you. He punishes himself by trying to push you away, and I believe it might be a cry for help. You're paying too much attention to his leg. You can't stand to see him hurting, so you _do_ for him, and it makes him dependant on you. I think you baby him, and that makes him whiny. Look at his leg a little less and the whole man a little more. You may be surprised by what you find."

Sonny shrugged. "I don't mean to pry, Bro. But you're my friend, and I give a damn."

Wilson smiled shyly. "I appreciate everything. I hadn't thought of myself as an enabler, but maybe I am. I try not to, but sometimes he takes chances with his health … which isn't what it used to be … and it drives me crazy. I'll try to remember what you said, and watch it. He's not fragile by any means. If he had better balance, he could probably wipe up the sidewalk with me!"

Sonny grinned. "But he wouldn't. You mean too much to him. A blind man could see it with a cane. You love him, Jimmy, but you're afraid it's only you. You're scared to come out and ask. I understand that. So I guess it's up to you to keep your eyes open and look for clues. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you find out some things you've never suspected before. He's a hell of a lot better at hiding things than you are. He's had a lot of practice, obviously, and his shell is going to be … pardon my Navajo … fucking hard to crack. But you can do it. You know where all the fissures are. In any case, he'll never find a better partner than you'll be."

Sonny clapped Wilson gently on the shoulder. "I better get back," he said. "If we want to get supper over with and have time for yours and Gregg's lectures tonight, I've got to get the next little volunteer group out in the kitchen and get their paddies dirty!" The handsome Navajo winked conspiratorially and sauntered away.

Wilson stood slack-jawed, considering Sonny's words. He was still standing that way when the sing-along broke up and Gregg House leaned across amid 'thank yous' and pats on the back, to pick up the arm-canes and lever himself slowly to his feet. He had been transformed instantly into the multi-talented "crippled" guy again. Wilson kicked himself mentally and watched Gregg move toward him.

"Hey!"

"Hey, House. You had them eating out of your hand."

"Phffffft!"

The happy and smiling Gregory House had gone back underground.

00000000

Dinner was over, dishes finished and put away.

Sonny Tse was introducing James Wilson, Director of Oncology, PPTH, of Princeton, New Jersey.

The applause was thunderous, the whistles and cat calls teasing and friendly. By the time Wilson got to his feet, his face was red, his forelock scraping his right eyebrow, and his note cards had taken a tumble and were all over the table, and a goodly number on the floor. That brought another round of catcalls and applause.

"Okay, guys," he finally said, even as he scraped the remaining note cards onto the floor with the rest of them. "I give up."

Beside him, Gregg House was hunched over the table in a fit of laughter. "I don't know where the hell this guy came from," he said in a stage whisper.

Wilson waited.

When House sat up and combed the smirk from his face, the others did too.

"Good evening, friends and colleagues," Wilson began.

Beside him, House suppressed another snicker.

Wilson paused for the second time, and then let the grin spread across his boyish face. "Let me rephrase that! 'Good evening friends, colleagues … and Gregory House!'"

They laughed out loud. He had them.

He got serious.

"Oncology," he began, lifting his head gradually to the lights, "can be the most heart-breaking, the most painful specialty in the Medical Profession." He paused to let that sink in as his eyes swept the room. "People you come to respect and care about, and root for as though they're home-run hitters on the local baseball team … begin to waste away slowly and then die before your eyes. It hurts when they don't make it through, in spite of every effort on their behalf …and you know there is nothing you could have done to prevent it …

"However, Oncology can also be the most exhilarating and exciting specialty a practitioner can expect in his or her lifetime."

He looked around the room further, warming up to his subject. Gregg's eyes were rapt upon him. "Nothing is more wonderful than seeing a formerly sick and pale little child … who left the hospital six months before … come back to you for a checkup … and run across the room and into your arms to give you a hug … and he-or-she has grown a head full of beautiful, healthy hair!

"That's one of our miracles … those kids … and I come across those every day too. So, you see, my specialty has its share of both tragedies and rewards. Medical research, in this young century, is at a crossroads, and we are just beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel with hopes for the imminent discovery of a cure for this insidious disease.

"That discovery could very well put the members of my specialty out of a job!" He looked around again and saw a few nods coming back to him.

"Now … it's true that none of us wants to be out of a job, but, believe me … I'd take it!"

Wilson spoke for an hour, and at the end, he asked for a glass of ice water and got it quickly while the group applauded and the room reverberated with chaos. He gulped his water and glanced down at House. The blue eyes were shining in a way he had seldom seen before. Was it Sonny's words resounding within his head? Or was it the Navajo Magic that had a grip on them all? He wasn't sure, except that he liked it.

They took a coffee break and chomped on cookies and donuts while colleagues gathered around him to congratulate him and ask questions and get his opinion on matters centering on his specialty.

At 9:00 p.m., Sonny introduced Gregory House to the same rumble of applause, whistles and good-natured catcalls.

Gregg surveyed the room from his seat for a moment, then growled in a deep and gruff voice: "Unhh ... anybody here mind if the cripple doesn't stand up?"

The dead silence that descended on the room was staggering. There were a few gasps, and Susan Carr's shrill voice could be heard very clearly from the back of the room:

"Oh my God!"

House wished someone would throttle the woman. He surveyed the room, and then held up a hand for silence. "You people are just too damned politically correct! That … was a … _joke!_"

They began to come to life again, some of them still uncertain whether he was serious or making fun.

"See what happens," he continued, "when we take ourselves _too_ seriously? We _gasp!_" And he gasped by way of demonstration. "_Oooh!_"

He saw some frowns. "The tips of our ears start to burn, and we begin to wonder if there are sheriffs' deputies listening at our keyholes to drag us away for speaking the unthinkable. Well … we all think stuff we never say out loud! So what's the big deal? I'm a _cripple!_ I know I'm a cripple, and _you_ know I'm a cripple.

"But God help you if you ever _treat_ me like a cripple! Are we clear on that?"

There were a few titters of nervous laughter, but it didn't encompass the room. He decided to stop torturing them. "Anyhow … let's move on."

He let them digest this for a moment, then spoke again in a more conversational tone. "As I said before … medicine is an inexact science. Will we ever get it right? Doesn't matter. Who cares?

"The thing is, we keep trying, and little by little, we learn. As doctors, we're in this business for the long haul, and against every set of odds Mother Nature can throw at us. We try like hell to thumb our noses at the old broad."

The statement brought out a few grunts of laughter.

C'mon, people … lighten up! 

He hadn't disgusted the crap out of all of them yet, but he wasn't the piano player anymore either. No longer the entertainer. He was turning, right before their eyes, into another breed of cat. Some of them weren't sure whether they liked it or not.

Just look at you squirm! 

He was confusing them; making them think. Making them question the wisdom of "following the crowd".

Fascinating! 

"Diagnostic Medicine! " He intoned loudly, after a long pause that had them twisting uncomfortably in their seats. House knew many people could not stand the sound of prolonged silence, and he watched more of them squirm. "Is also an inexact science. Think about it!

"Diagnostics is a twenty-four-seven cat-and-mouse game. Whether or not the cat gets the mouse, often depends on how sharp the cat's eyes are, and how well developed its sense of smell turns out to be! And whether its brain is capable of thinking outside the box!"

Another very long pause, and this time the silence had an edge to it: they wanted to hear more. One could have heard a pin drop, but House was still slumped in his chair.

When he spoke again, it was so low that they had to strain to hear.

"It also depends on how smart the mouse is at being able to find hidey holes that conceal him from the persistence of the cat. See? One hand against the other hand! Boink-boink-boink!" His voice grew louder again. "Proves the old adage: 'one hand doesn't know what the hell the other hand is doing' … or some such crap like that. You all know what I mean.

"I, on the other hand, intend to be the dirtiest, most low-down, sneakiest and most underhanded damned cat that ever crawled through the bowels of a hospital!

"_Because!_" Shouted.

A few people jumped in their seats.

House ignored them and went right on, lowering his voice yet again. "Because … that's what some _diseases_ are, and that's the kind of diligence they demand from those of us who are in this business to annihilate them forever …"

He too, continued for another hour, finally winning them over with his passion and absolute demands that they: "_Dig-dig-dig_ … leaving no stone unturned … sometimes _literally_, if you have the staff to work it with you," … which drew a snicker from Wilson.

"As _deep_ as necessary … to find a cure for the disease you're pursuing! Even if you come up somewhere in the back yard of a greengrocer in _Shanghai_!" And he wondered whether part of that went right out over their heads.

There was, however, a single low snicker of appreciative laughter.

Wilson again!

You're so familiar with my bullshit that you don't even react anymore! 

He barked a second of sardonic laughter, held his palms together in front of his face …

… _Ah so!_

… and ended his presentation.

They all crowded around him again, this time a little in awe of the brilliance they detected within his mind without necessarily having understood its entire meaning.

They knew instinctively that he had been putting them on, in a way, but forgave him anyhow. His awesome intellect made some of them feel inferior, and inspired others to begin a search of their own to find that which he had attained just by being what and who he was.

For the second time that day, the crutches became, for a time, invisible.

By 11:00 p.m., Gregg was talked out. His hand ached from shaking hands with others, and his head was spinning from the constant flow of enthusiastic questions and opinions that whirled around and around inside his tired brain. For a change, he found himself too tired to even try to walk, and he requested that Wilson bring the wheelchair back and take him up to bed. He needed a Vicodin and a comfortable place to rest his leg. The day had been exhilarating, but it was time for it to end.

Gregg reached down and stroked the silky coat of Amiga, who had been sitting at his side most of the evening. She rested her soft muzzle on his knee and wallowed in the attention she was getting from his gentle hands, until Wilson came up on his opposite side with the chair. "Gotta go, girl," House said, finally.

They made their apologies to the others who could not miss the fact that he was hurting. And then the wheelchair disappeared down the hallway toward the elevator.

"I don't know how he does it," Rema commented after they'd left. "He was in pain a half hour after supper, and never said a word!"

Sonny nodded. "Jimmy said he was like that!"

Everyone said their "good-nights" by midnight and headed toward their rooms. The conference would start in earnest in the morning.

00000000

House was hunched and exhausted by the time Wilson helped him into bed. "Would you like a message before you sleep?" Wilson asked.

"My God, Wilson … I'm not the only one here who's tired to the bone."

"That's got nothing to do with the question I just asked," Wilson said. "You need something besides pills to help you sleep tonight."

"Then I'd like you to do it. I'm cramping, and I don't want to go into spasm if I can help it …"

"Take your sweat pants off!"

The blue stare pinned him in place.

Wilson snorted. "Nobody said you had to take off your boxers, House! You have a dirty mind."

"Yeah … well … you'd be the one to know about that!" House pulled the sweats down to his knees.

"Bet on it!" Wilson untied the Nikes and eased them off, then gently pulled the grey sweat pants away from House's legs. "You're all knotted," he observed.

"I know. Hurts some …."

"I don't doubt it."

Very gently, Wilson laid hands on either side of the deep surgical scar and caressed the rigid muscles on each side of the bad leg. "Do you need a shot? I have my kit …"

House shook his head. "Not unless it goes into spasm."

Wilson continued the massage. "Helping any? Give me a number!"

"Yeah. About a seven, I guess. I'll give you an hour to cut that out …"

"Smartass."

Ten minutes later, House was dozing. Wilson raised his leg gently and pulled a bed pillow beneath the knee, then got up from the edge of the bed and walked over to his own. He watched House settle deeper into sleep, then turned off the overhead light and flopped onto his pillow. It was midnight. He had heard the Becketts walk past in the hallway about fifteen minutes earlier. He turned his attention back to his friend, wondering how long Gregg would be able to sleep this night.

James was out like a light within five minutes.

00000000

_Bring it over here, darling! Now hold it steady so I can pound the stake in. Don't tip it, or it'll grow that way! Oh Gregg, don't be so silly. Hold it still. There. That's it. Now! That's got it._

_Want me to get some water? These things take a lot of water!_

_Oh, go ahead. A bucket or two ought to do it._

_Gregg? Gregg! What the hell are you doing? Oh my God! It's only a baby apple tree … you're going to drown it! Gregg!_

_More water, more water, gotta get more water! EEyoowwwooo … !!! Stacy!!_

"Unmfphhh … oh fuck …"

He'd been dreaming. Stacy had been planting the little apple tree, and he'd fooled around with buckets of water until, exasperated with his clowning, she had poured a bucket of it down his back. What a hell of a thing to show up in his dreams seven or eight years later in the middle of the Arizona desert!

House gathered himself by degrees and hefted upward until he was sitting on his ass.

"Ah! My rear end doesn't hurt anymore! Wow! The damned bruise is getting better. Thank God! What time is it? Today I can use my cane again!"

He pressed the button and looked at his watch. It was only 2:30 a.m. He'd been asleep a little over two hours. He needed to pee, and wondered if he could make it. He pushed his right leg to the edge of the bed and bit down on his lip. His sweat pants were inside out, right where Wilson had dropped them. "Shit!"

He swung around and eased his leg down, using both hands. When his foot was flat on the floor with no problem, he reached back for the pants. Pain hit and he gasped, but the pants were in his hand. He hauled them across the surface of the bed and turned them right side out. He worried them up over his legs slowly. He had to stand to get them over his ass, and he did so gingerly, keeping his weight on the left side.

Where was the goddamned cane? Where were the goddamned crutches? Freakin' Wilson was hiding them on him again. No! There were the crutches, hanging by the foot of the bed. No cane in sight. He grabbed them. Stood up gingerly. Sock feet! The Nikes had added an extra inch to his height, and without them his balance would be off.

Fuck! 

He leaned forward and shuffled his right foot ahead.

Keep quiet, House! Don't wake the Putz! 

God, it hurt! But the excursion was necessary. He shuffled by degrees out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the shower room, up to the urinal. Leaned a single crutch against the wall. He pulled the edge of the sweat pants down from his hips, balanced himself. Fished his dick out of his drawers.

Whew! Relief! 

House reassembled things, hitched up the pants and shuffled off on the return trip. He bit his lip and finally made it back to bed. Eased down, eased the crutches down. Sighed. Reached for the Vicodin bottle and palmed out two of the little white pontoons. Slapped his open mouth with them. Swallowed.

The area light down in the yard spread a halo on the parched ground, and he stared at it, waiting for the meds to work. The bruise on his butt didn't hurt much anymore, but his leg was back to its old song and dance. He clasped his thigh between both hands and squeezed gently. The surgical scar gathered into itself for a moment of temporary relief. Then his leg discovered what he had done and wreaked vengeance. He sat and endured it, rocking back and forth with the beat of his heart thundering …

Down in the yard, the corner of his eye caught a flicker of movement. He blinked and looked again. It was only the area light reflecting on something. He went back to rubbing his leg. Looked down into the yard again.

Whoa! Area light poles aren't in the habit of moving! 

It had his full attention now. It wasn't the area light at all. It was much further out. Way out …in the desert. Lights … two of them … jumping and wavering. Getting brighter, but standing still. He trained his vision on the phenomenon and waited. The lights grew larger, even though they were still tiny with distance. They were not exactly moving … but still getting bigger, somehow.

_What the hell?_

Glimmering, shimmering. Vibrating in the heavy desert air.

Car lights! From a vast distance, they were approaching. Head on. _That's_ why they didn't appear to be moving. The car was way off, but coming straight toward him. His pain was diminishing now, Vicodin finally kicking in. He pulled himself backward into the stack of pillows against the wall.

He rubbed at his thigh and watched the lights as they approached. Maybe someone was coming to the hospital in an emergency. Maybe he should alert Wilson so Wilson could go alert Sonny Tse. He thought about it.

_Damn!_

He would have to get up, disturb his leg and have it thundering again. He refused to yell at Wilson and wake him. That would be a shitty thing to do. Wilson would come off the bed in a panic, and he could break his fool neck. Nobody needed _two_ of them on crutches!

Gregg was ready to slide his legs off the bed again.

That was when the car lights disappeared. Gone! Swallowed by a hole in the night!

_Blink!_

Cut off as though they'd never been there. No shimmer, no hazy clouds of dust. Simply not there anymore! Vanished! Kaput! He squinted and continued to stare. Where the hell did they go? Surely he wasn't hallucinating!

Gregg turned his head away, and then jerked it back toward the window again, hoping that he was either seeing things, or it would magically reappear. There was indeed a strange magic about this place, which already he couldn't explain. Maybe this was more of the same.

"Nothing! Not a God damned thing!" He whispered.

"Spooks."

"UFOs."

"Things that go bump in the night."

House leaned back against his pile of pillows and sighed the sigh of a put-upon genius. He would tell Wilson what he'd seen when they got up in the morning.

And Wilson would then tell Sonny … and so on and so on and so on …

Wilson was snoring softly. He'd been so tired when they'd come upstairs tonight, but still he'd taken the time to ease Gregg's pain as best he could. He was a rare breed, and House knew he didn't say it aloud nearly often enough. He smiled contentedly at the peaceful buzzing sound that reminded him of a big cat purring. It was comfortable and familiar and reassuring.

He wished Wilson could be around to snore him to sleep every night for the rest of his life.

"What a half-assed idea! He'd crap his shorts if he knew what I was thinking …"

Gregg House drifted off again and slept.

Second night in a row!

is leg hurt, but it did not throb. If he was still, perhaps he could get back to sleep. He would mention what he saw to Wilson He

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116


	11. Chapter 11

- Chapter 11 –

"Chindi House"

The headlights in the middle of the desert, whatever else they might have been, were not anything that might have arisen from Gregory House's pain-induced hallucination.

These lights belonged to the "Honkin' huge pickup truck!"

Randall Kurtz's words; the big, over-rated, over-priced, diesel-clacking four-wheel-drive maroon monstrosity of a Ford F-250 with every option known to man, plus after-market luxuries that would have choked an elephant. Some rich fat cat with a fancy "Swiss Chalet" outside of Flagstaff had left the thing behind his stable with the keys in it, and when the old black pickup they'd been driving took a dump nearby, they'd simply helped themselves to it. They'd wiped the ancient Dodge clean of prints and loaded everything they could carry, including the dead-weight unconscious body of ol' Jose Suarez, and took off again as though it had been nothing more than a stop for burgers and fries at Wendy's.

They stumbled across the old Navajo Hogan by sheer dumb luck in the middle of the night, wondering why the hell the door was boarded up and someone had cleared away a path of stones to put a hole in the wall around the other side. Curious. Not only that, but there was a moth-eaten mustang stud penned up in a small corral about fifty feet east of the Hogan, and apparently no one else around.

They dragged Jose Suarez inside through the hole in the wall, mainly because it would have been too much trouble to rip all the boards off the doorway. The inside had been amazingly well kept, even a low cot with a hand-woven Indian blanket over it. Randall Kurtz and Erik Jefferies carried Suarez across and placed him upon it. Predictably, Suarez never moved before or after they transferred his body. They were all beginning to fear the worst. No contact, no payoff. Very soon, somewhere in the desert, someone waiting for a very valuable computer program would be very disappointed. And then the shit would hit the fan. None of them knew exactly how, but they knew it was coming.

Tall and silent, dark and brooding, Hosteen Tull walked around the inside perimeter of the Hogan, black eyes missing nothing, penetrating gaze discerning and appraising, but he maintained a stony silence. His upper lip curled as he'd wandered around taking in all the signs of his Native American heritage, but revealing not so much as a hint of what he might be thinking. Had he maintained any semblance of a bond with that heritage, he might have warned the others off from stopping here, even though the Hogan's isolation was ideal for hiding Suarez until it could be determined whether or not the man would awaken on his own, or whether more drastic measures would have to be taken.

In Navajo lore, this place was bad medicine. A malevolent ghost resided here, and its presence bode evil to all who dared to enter. But that was the "old" Navajo way, and he had left all that nonsense behind many years ago. It was just an empty shell of a place where someone had died, and ancient hocus-pocus was just that: Ancient Hocus Pocus! Hosteen had sneered to himself and walked outside into the early pre-dawn darkness, lit up a cigarette and sank onto his haunches to await developments.

Inside, a low conversation took place.

"That hospital is close to here, I think," Mark Lansa imparted to anyone who happened to be listening.

"What?" That was Kurtz, always angry, always belligerent, always ready to punish others for their indiscretions. "Why didn't you say so before?"

"Didn't know if this was the right place." As always, Lansa used a minimum of words to get his point across.

Jefferies butted in at this point. "Shut up, Kurtz!" He turned his attention back to Lansa. "How far?"

"Fifteen miles … twenty maybe … north of here."

"We take Jose there?" Jeffries again.

"Fuck no! Grab a couple of doctors and bring 'em here! House calls!" Kurtz laughed at his own joke.

No one joined in the laughter, but the others exchanged pointed glances.

Outside, they all heard scuffling in the dirt. Hosteen Tull appeared suddenly at the hole in the wall, dragging a desert-clad young Navajo Indian by his buckskin collar. The youngster was unconscious. "Look what I found!" He dragged the kid inside and dumped him in the middle of the floor. The youth did not move.

"What the fuck is this?" Randall demanded.

"Caught him sneaking around outside. He looks after this place, feeds the horse, stands watch. He was curious about the truck, so he had to check us out. I decked him with a rock."

"How do you know all this?" Randall demanded.

"I'm a stinking savage, asshole!"

"Tie him up! Somebody has to stay and watch him and Jose while the rest of us go round us up some medics."

"I'll stay." Tavon Greene offered.

"Oh no you won't, Spear Chucker!" Kurtz growled. "You're driving the truck! Hosteen can stay. He knows how to talk 'Ooga Mooga' to these crummy savages."

And that's the way it had all come down. Kurtz, Jeffries, Lansa and Green piled into the overblown Ford and set out toward Rez Hospital, Greene driving and Lansa pointing the way.

"'Gonna buy me a bluebi-r-r-rd …'" Kurtz gurgled as they roared away in a cloud of dust. "'Let 'im sing me a son-n-ng … 'cos I been lonely … far … too … lon-n-ng-g-g …'"

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When Gregory House drifted into full consciousness Monday morning, it was just past daylight, and the room's air conditioner was struggling mightily to keep the heat at bay. That was not what had roused him, however. He opened his eyes a slit and looked across the expanse between himself and the other bed. It was the quiet closing of the door that had sniggled its way into the crack where sleep had been and where wakefulness was now taking hold.

James Wilson had his back turned and was shouldering out of his bathrobe, hair damp and hanging in his eyes, and from the stunted movements of his supple, naked body, doing his best to get dressed quietly. House turned his head on the pillow a fraction and watched appraisingly.

Wilson was slender, just a tad south of skinny. His legs were long and well muscled, as were his arms. His shoulders weren't exactly wide, but well proportioned and powerful. There were shallow little indentations in each ass cheek, and his hips were sharp enough so that the definition rising toward his rib cage gave him a slim waistline that might have made a woman jealous. Wilson was definitely a handsome, sexy man, and Gregg had no trouble calling it as he saw it.

Wilson picked up a soft pair of dark blue Jockey underwear and stepped gracefully into them, pulling them quickly to his waist. Across the room, Gregg House tore his eyes away and stared up at the ceiling tiles, remembering a time when he could have done that also, just as gracefully. Even the tiny, everyday routine of slipping into a pair of underwear was a major production nowadays, and it was impossible for him to do it standing up. Every movement had to be choreographed to accommodate what his leg would allow him to do at any particular moment. He sighed aloud and knew immediately that he had given himself away. Wilson turned with a pair of white socks in his hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Good morning, House. Sleep well?" He had no idea he'd been under such intense scrutiny.

House quirked his eyebrows languidly before answering. "Yeah, pretty much. You really don't have to sneak around and be quiet on my account. Sometimes people make more noise trying to be quiet than if they just moved around naturally." He shrugged, a comical movement from flat on his back. "Your muscles are all tensed up from being so damned careful not to wake me. You remind me of a treed cat. Come on over here."

Wilson laid the socks back on the bed, rose and crossed the room cautiously. "What?"

House held out a hand, which Wilson clasped without thinking. "Pull me up, then sit beside me."

James did as requested and House slid his legs carefully off the edge of the bed, easing the bad one down until his feet were flat on the floor. "See?" He said. "My ass is getting better. As soon as you hand me my meds and dig out my cane from wherever you hid it, I have something for you that I think you might enjoy." He smirked at Wilson's puzzled look, even as he reached for the Vicodin bottle.

House popped a pill dry as he always did, and took the cane from Wilson's outstretched hand after his friend dug it out from under the edge of his bed. "See? You did hide it from me, dammit!"

Wilson smiled softly and sat down close to Gregg's left side. "I didn't want you doing something dumb," he admitted.

"Shit!" House laid the cane on the bed and reached up to Wilson's left shoulder with his left hand. He followed that with his right hand on the other shoulder. Slowly, he began to knead the tight muscles between his thumbs. He rolled the taunt skin and the sinew beneath, digging deeply almost to the point of pain, then out and away, following through with his long fingers across the tops of Wilson's shoulder muscles. Wilson wilted, groaning beneath House's touch, letting his head loll back and forth, rolling his head blissfully as the tension melted away from his neck and upper back. "Oh my God, that feels good! Had no idea you were so talented."

House snorted, approaching snark velocity. "Oh, you have no concept of the miracles these hands have performed over the years. So much more than just the manipulators of crutches and canes." He dug his fingers in again, and continued until Wilson grunted out loud again.

"House?" Wilson turned to look at his friend sharply. "Can we not talk about this crap this morning? It's a new day, a new week. We have a lot to do, and I need you to stay positive."

House nodded brusquely and let his hands fall into his lap. "Yeah, sure. Sorry … Sometimes the 'crap' just belches out of me like steam from Old Faithful. Go ahead and get dressed. I want to shower and get presentable. I'll see you downstairs."

Wilson's head snapped up. "Can you … ? Do you want me to … ?"

"I'm fine. Get going! I'll see you in a little while."

Wilson got up and moved across the room to finish getting dressed. "Thanks for the massage. It was wonderful." He paused momentarily and turned around to face the other man, pointing a finger at the cane in warning. "Be damned careful in the shower room! I think it's too soon for that thing, but I'm not going to argue with you."

House looked up from the bed. He had assembled a pile of clothing by his side, and was getting himself together to stand up. "Yes, Mother. I will be 'damned careful'!"

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James Wilson walked into the dining room just as it was emptying out. He saw groups of people moving off together, laughing and chattering, most of them carrying cups of coffee and folders full of the day's itineraries and suggestion lists for their workshops. Outside the doorways, the groups broke apart and went their separate ways to gather together again in specialty conclaves in clinic examining rooms, break rooms, second-floor offices and med-storage rooms; wherever there was enough space for a table with chairs and a coffee pot. Sonny, Nikki, Rema, Susan and Alan remained grouped around one of the dining room tables with piles of papers stacked neatly in front of them.

"Anybody see my mutt around here this morning?" Sonny inquired of anyone who happened to be listening.

"Amiga?" Rema said. "She was out by the stable when I got out of bed this morning, but I haven't seen her since. Why?"

"Just wondered," Sonny replied. "Probably out hunting sidewinders again. She'll be back when she's ready." He took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. "Damn! Hot!"

Wilson set his coffee cup down and pulled out the nearest empty chair. "Good morning, all," he said. "Sorry I'm late. I was talking to House, and he'll be down in awhile."

"I certainly hope he's feeling better this morning than he was last night," Susan said. "Poor man. His leg is very painful most of the time, isn't it?"

James Wilson pursed his lips, not wanting to be impolite, but wishing she would just let it go. "His leg is painful _all_ the time, Susan. _All_ the time! He has no peace from it. But he doesn't speak of it, doesn't dwell on it, doesn't burden anyone else with it … except maybe me."

He smiled sadly, and changed the subject. "So what's on the agenda this morning? I understand this group is going to try to come up with some ideas for fund raising?"

Across the table from him, Sonny nodded. "Yeah … uh … we need some astute mental manipulating here; some creative ways anyone can think of to keep this rusty old ship afloat. Our government subsidies give us the bare bones.

"We get grants and endowments that keep us in drugs and bandages and what-have-you. But diagnostic and imaging equipment, modern MRIs and Ultrasound units have always been denied us for the simple reason that we just can't afford them. Even enough money to afford a central air conditioning system would be a godsend. So. Does anyone have anything to offer?"

At first there was only silence.

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On the second floor, Gregory House was standing under the needle spray of one of the showers, running the water as hot as he could stand it. The cane was propped near his right side, close to the sweat pants hanging from the hook. Both hands were propped against the wall below the showerhead.

His right leg was bent, and he regarded the large bruise near the infarction site with a dispassionate stare, finally noticing that it carried the exact contours of the bend in the 737's armrest imprinted on his skin. The injury was still dark and angry and contributed to his further loss of mobility to a degree he was only now beginning to understand.

This explained the tenderness with which Wilson had touched his leg the night before. He hadn't realized the full extent of it because he hadn't seen it before, and Wilson had not mentioned it, obviously on purpose. Nothing could be done anyway; it had to run its course. He frowned, wondering why Wilson hadn't insisted that he use the crutches today yet. Strange. Very un-Wilson-like!

Even when he'd stumbled down the hallway a few minutes ago, he'd known that Wilson had been right. His stubborn insistence on going back to the cane so soon had been a mistake. His lameness twisted his body, torturing muscle groups that were not intended for use in walking.

The pain escalated and he was exhausted by the time he made it to the shower room. Now he was locked into his own stupid decision with another "I'm fine!" for Wilson's benefit when he wasn't fine at all, and he found he had sentenced himself to another day of misery because he was too damn obstinate to show up downstairs on crutches and give Wilson the satisfaction of being right.

House turned off the shower and grabbed his clean sweat pants and the cane, slowly maneuvering over to one of the toilet stalls. He shut the door and sat down on the closed lid. He had forgotten to bring a towel with him, and his wet ass slid precariously on the smooth commode seat. He hoped he would not end up on the floor. He'd never be able to get up again.

Ten minutes later, he'd made the transition without mishap. He eased himself upward, both hands braced on the paper towel holder and the toilet paper holder, both empty, and stood slowly, testing the strength of the muscles in his right leg. His latest Vicodin was taking hold. He hopped clumsily until balance returned, and grabbed the cane in a death grip.

Everything in House's physical life was difficult; every move a pain in the ass, and sometimes he wondered why he continued to fight it. It would be so much easier to just fall back into the relative comfort of a wheelchair where he didn't have to inflict constant pain upon himself, and just allow someone else to push the boulder uphill.

It would take so little effort to upend an entire bottle of Vicodin down his throat and end it all, experience some kind of existence in another dimension, even if he didn't believe in it. End the pain. End the anger. End the bitterness and the hopelessness and the constant struggle once and for all. Peace in the Valley! God! He'd been thinking shit like this much too often lately.

Only trouble with that kind of "stinkin' thinkin'" was … his innate stubbornness would not condone the easy way out. No easier softer way for Gregg House! No dumping the responsibility for his continued existence on someone else, and no hiding from the repercussions of his own actions. His bed was made for the rest of his life, and like it or not, and he would bite the bullet and lie in it.

"Christ!" He muttered angrily. "What a cliché-ridden crock of bullshit! House, you are a millstone around the neck of the human race, you know that? Get your head out of your ass and get a grip!"

He recalled what he'd said to the crowd last night about the shit that sniggled around in everyone's heads. Just because he reflected on it didn't mean the "Thought Police" would ever pry it out of him! Another thought popped into his head suddenly. He had never mentioned the headlights in the desert to Wilson. His friend would probably think he had turned the corner!

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, rubbing at his leg. He popped two more Vicodin, and then got dressed by degrees, languishing in between, choosing his favorite blue shirt, and leaving the cuffs unbuttoned as usual. He removed the sweat pants and drew another pair of old blue jeans gradually over his hips. He waited until his feet were thoroughly dry before trying to pull on the gray socks. They were easier to manage than white ones, and he seldom wore white ones for that reason alone. He would love to have worn loafers … easy-on-easy-off … but had known all the arguments against them for a long time.

When he was finished, he combed his hair until it was almost neat. He chose his pet sport jacket just for the hell of it; the dark blue one with the satin lining … the one Wilson always teased that he was going to steal if House ever left it lying around where he could get his hands on it. He might as well wear it, look halfway decent. It wasn't as though he would go outside in the stifling Arizona heat! He patted the right outside pocket, making sure a full bottle of Vicodin rested within. It did.

Finally, he was ready to go downstairs and face the world and James Wilson, dreading the moment his friend would steal a look at him and cock an eyebrow, letting him know he thought it was too soon for the cane, and communicate that thought with a lifted eyebrow, never opening his mouth about it one way or the other.

So be it. House wouldn't be caught dead going back on a resolution. He had vowed to be less acerbic this week, but he could still hassle Wilson along the way. He had no qualms whatsoever about whether Wilson would hassle back in his own quiet manner. Sometimes "quiet" was even worse!

When the old elevator trundled down to the ground floor and hit its stops, he held back for a moment in order to collect his thoughts and prepare a likely story as the reason he was just showing up for breakfast at … he stole a look at his watch … almost 9:00 a.m.

House limped toward the kitchen from the back hallway, intent on the nearest cup of coffee and the best cock'n'bull story he could concoct.

He neither saw nor heard the lurking forms of four men hidden in the shadows of the opposing hallway.

He was at the coffee urn, cup in hand with the pour-handle depressed, when he looked up and saw two of them, definitely not doctors or staff personnel, approaching him in a threatening, less-than-forthright manner. The fine hairs at the back of his neck came to rigid attention. A cold twitter of alarm coursed down his spine.

Without even thinking about it, House hurled the half-full cup of coffee like a guided missile at the shaved head of the lout advancing toward his right flank. The cup bounced off Jeffries' shoulder and hit the counter with a metallic clank, sending hot liquid in all directions. Behind Jeffries, Lansa stepped quickly past him and closed in on Gregg's left side. House grasped his cane like a baseball bat and swung from the hip with all his considerable upper body strength.

It might have worked if his balance had not been shot to hell and his leg had not started to collapse beneath him. Lansa raised an arm to deflect the blow and House yelped in pain as his right leg bent backward beyond its limits, then twisted hard. He went down like a bag of rocks, and his knee hit the floor with a crack. His ankle wrenched over and landed hard on the bone with a rip of ligaments. The cane sailed harmlessly past Lansa's head, rebounding off one of the refrigerators to land on the floor under one of the food prep counters. House cried out.

Two things happened at once:

The dining room door flew open. Sonny, James, Nikki and Rema burst through when they heard Gregg scream. At the other end of the room, Kurtz and Greene exploded into the back of the kitchen behind Jeffries. By this time, Kurtz and Jeffries both had their guns drawn and were ready to begin shooting if Sonny had not thrown out his arms to block his companions from advancing any further.

In naked fear, however, James Wilson ducked beneath the restraining arm and threw himself down on his knees, pushing Lansa out of the way against a counter base. Mindless of his own safety, he slid across the greasy surface toward Gregg, who writhed on the floor mewling in pain and hugging his injured leg to his body with both hands.

Wilson pulled himself close to his friend and drew House's trembling shoulders closer. He wrapped his arms protectively about House and held on tightly, not daring to touch the leg, or even get near it.

House struggled within Wilson's grasp, unable to hold still, his whole body convulsing with the agony caused by his bad leg twisting beneath him, then hitting the floor with a jarring impact that went up his spine as though it had been ripped open with a knife. He was sobbing like a badly injured child.

Wilson looked up in near panic, not caring what the consequences might be, and screamed orders past whoever … whatever … these creatures might be. House was out of his head with pain, and there was only one thing that could be done about it at the moment.

"Demerol!" Wilson screamed. "Get me a vial of Demerol! Stat! He's going into shock!"

It was Rema whose tiny body slipped past Sonny's outthrust arm and sped through the kitchen toward the four men poised with murderous looks and drawn weapons. "I'll get it, Jimmy! Hang on!" She was in the middle of them before they even had the presence of mind to try to stop her.

It was Tavon who finally grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. "Where do you think you're going?" He demanded gruffly.

Rema's huge black eyes bored into his, fearlessly, and she yanked her arm out of his grasp. "Let go of me!" She replied icily. "I need to find something to take away Dr. House's pain. He's disabled … as if you all couldn't see that! And if his bad leg gets hurt, he could die! Do you want to be charged with murder?" She poured on the bullshit a little thick; certain none of them had any idea what she was talking about. She was right. The man moved away from her while the others looked on suspiciously.

"What the fuck's another murder among friends?" Kurtz drawled maliciously. "I could always put a bullet in the old broad's head."

"Yeah, asshole!" Tavon spat angrily. "That's your answer for everything. 'If it moves, shoot it!' Did you forget we came here to round up some doctors to help out the boss? Well, this little one here is probably one of them. Still want to plug her?"

"Okay, go!" Kurtz snarled. "Stay with her and get the … whatever that crap is. Don't let her try any tricks!"

Tavon shook his head, dreadlocks flopping. "Get moving, Doc … you're on borrowed time. You all are!"

They hurried out of the room with Rema leading the way, Greene close at her heels. In sixty seconds they were back. Rema had a vial in one hand and a syringe in the other. She plowed unceremoniously through the group of armed thugs to where Wilson still sat with House's head cradled in his lap.

House clung to his tortured leg. He was still sobbing, trying to control it. Rema knelt at Jim's side and reached out to touch Gregg's sweat-soaked hair. Wilson took the vial from her hand and plunged the tip of a needle into the end. He then squirted a cc out the tip. "Easy, Gray Fox," Rema whispered. "We've got you covered."

Wilson drove the needle home and House cried out when it went into his leg just above the infarction site. "I hope this does it," Wilson murmured to no one in particular. "He has a pretty high tolerance for drugs." They sat still and simply consoled him. Around them, it was a Mexican standoff. No one moved, and the room was bathed in silence except for Gregg's soft moans. Then gradually, even those began to taper off. The drug was working.

Sonny and Nikki surged further into the room, and behind them, a silent Alan Tam and the whining, whimpering Susan Carr pushed in at their backs.

"Hail hail, the gang's all here!" Mark Lansa muttered sarcastically. "Think we got enough doctors now? The one sacked out on the floor don't count!"

His fellow gang members stared at him in shock. It was the most words he'd put together in a string since they'd known him.

ONE HOUR EARLIER:

The desert was unforgiving, uncompromising, and unrelenting. Like a selfish, grasping woman, it took, but never gave back. It used, but never replaced, and it sang a Lorelei song that hypnotized, then killed. The heat bore down and the dust was everywhere. The sky was like a calm blue ocean from horizon to horizon, and the sun a blue-gold medallion laced with daggers that would remove your skin layer by layer, should you dare to remain beneath it too long.

Tavon drove the powerful pickup truck in the direction Lansa pointed, keeping its speed close to fifty miles per hour in a vain effort to keep the dust from enveloping them and obliterating the road. It was only eight in the morning, and already the heat was making a good attempt at overpowering the big Ford's air conditioning system. Even Detroit's finest efforts couldn't hold a candle to Mother Nature, who'd been around the planet a hell of a lot longer.

Inside the truck, tempers flared as it became more and more apparent that Jose Suarez might not make it to another sunrise, and all their months of planning, scheming and underhanded dealings could very easily go up like smoke in the wind. The man was in a coma, and even those of the group who had no idea what a coma was, or what it implied, understood that part of it.

Jose wasn't talking because he couldn't talk. Couldn't move. His mind and brain were digressing elsewhere; each moment he remained comatose was another gazillion bucks down the drain. It wasn't that any of them gave that much of a shit for Jose himself, but he represented riches and a comfortable existence for each of them for the rest of their lives, and even the faintest thought of losing out on such a perfect scheme angered them all beyond reason.

Lansa sat up front with Tavon and kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, peering through the dust clouds thrown up by the F-250's big tires. Greene made sure to hold their speed down, but it didn't do much good. Even the slightest breeze running ahead of them on the road spun dust devils that clung to the windshield like shit to a blanket, and Tavon had to run the wipers intermittently to keep it off, which made him snort in disgust. Windshield wipers were intended to keep off the wet … not the dry!

In the back seat, Kurtz and Jeffries maintained a sullen silence, but barely. Kurtz kept fiddling with the cylinder of his pistol, hitting it with the heel of his hand, spinning it and making it buzz over and over again.

Jeffries had his own hand gun out, polishing its barrel with the tail of his shirt, but the Glock had no cylinder to spin, and the only sound he could think of to get back at Kurtz for his jittering, was to put a bullet straight through the center of the asshole-cowboy's forehead as he'd done with the two security guards the day before. The bastard would have it coming. His fuck-up with the unmanned gun turrets had put them all into this fix in the first place!

They rode in sullen silence for a couple of miles, until Jeffries couldn't stand it any longer and finally exploded at Kurtz. "If you don't put that fucking gun away, I'm gonna blow your fucking balls off!"

Kurtz turned his head casually in the bald-headed man's direction and snorted derisively. "Yeah, sure, you stupid honky … and if you don't shut up and mind your own fucking business, I'm gonna drill you another eyeball right smack between the first two." He looked away again and continued to spin the cylinder of his .45.

Jeffries was ready to pounce. "You stupid, pea-brained Texas Wetback, I could rip your fuckin' tongue out with one hand tied behind my back."

Jumping into the heat of things, Kurtz retorted angrily. "The only thing you could do with your hand tied behind you back is … scratch your nuts!"

Up front, Tavon Greene stomped on the brakes so hard that the other three, none of them wearing seatbelts, flew forward into the backs of the seats, and in Lansa's case, into the wide dashboard. Greene whirled around in his seat and bore down on the two in back. "This isn't kindergarten class!" He roared. "Sit the fuck down and shut up! I'm trying to get us a doctor to tend to Jose, who, in case you can't remember that far, is the only person on earth who can make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. Without Jose, we're screwed. We might as well walk into the nearest jailhouse with our arms held out for the handcuffs. If we don't get out of the country soon, we're going to be doing time. A _lot _of time! I, for one, want to get back to my family! Understood?"

Jeffries and Kurtz said nothing further in the face of his anger, and also in the realization that what he said was mostly true. In their narrow escape, they had surely left a trail that even a five-year-old could follow, and getting away quickly, with the money or without it, was becoming more and more necessary as time went on. The two of them sat back in their seats and did not look at one another, nor at Tavon or Mark, whose angry stare made their chances for a showdown at least fifty-fifty.

Tavon turned around in the driver's seat and left off the brake. The big pickup rolled forward again. Tavon flipped the accumulated dust from the windshield with the wipers, noticing that the wind was picking up.

_Fuck!_

Ten miles later, Mark Lansa pointed through the windshield. "Look!"

Tavon put on the brakes and pulled to a stop along the side of the road. Up ahead, a huge old brick, wood and adobe building loomed out of the distance and stomped a colossal footprint in the middle of the desert. "You mean that thing up there is a 'hospital'?"

Lansa nodded. "Yeah. They call it 'Rez'."

"For 'Reservation Hospital'?"

"Yeah."

From the back seat, both Jeffries and Kurtz leaned forward and stared. "What the fuck are all those cars?" Kurtz asked. "Must be a hundred of 'em standin' around there!"

"I dunno." Lansa said. "They aint mine! You wanted a hospital. This is a hospital!"

"Look at the fence in front … there's a cardboard sign tacked on the gate. What's it say?" This from Jeffries.

Tavon squinted. "Medical Conference. Rez Hospital. August 28 – Sept. 3." He read. "Uh oh … that explains all the cars. Now what?"

"It means we gotta be fuckin' careful going in!" Jeffries grumbled. "Grab a couple of docs and get 'em the hell out with us."

"Fine," Tavon said. "But we can't go in this way. Somebody will see us. Mark, is there another entrance where we can sneak inside?"

Lansa nodded. "Back up. Go right. Side door. Mostly nobody there."

Cautiously, Tavon backed the truck around and swung its nose to the right, bypassing a large parking lot full of rental cars of all descriptions. He skirted the perimeter fence and came in by the other side, halting the big vehicle about fifty yards off the northwest entrance which could barely be seen from their cover of sagebrush, mesquite and tall Saguaro cactus.

They tumbled out, one by one, Jeffries and Kurtz with weapons sheathed, but at the ready. Jeffries and Lansa took the lead. Greene and Kurtz followed close behind, but far enough back so they could skitter around into the underbrush in case the first two were discovered. It was a silly, disjointed parade that wove its serpentine way closer and closer to the small side entrance. They all met under cover of an expanse of brick wall full of holes that might once have held ironwork, or which might have been drilled with bullet or cannonball holes from some historically distant, unknown battle.

Kurtz leaned around the corner and tried the door. It was locked, but the lock was loose and rusty. It would take little to break through it, and Kurtz did so easily, and then jumped back in case someone might have heard and come to investigate. There was nothing.

One by one, they took turns squeezing through the opening and found themselves lined up single-file along a cobweb-cluttered, darkened hallway. Doors along both sides opened into musty rooms stacked with ancient cardboard boxes and rusty, dusty furniture and crates of strange tools that none of them had ever seen before. They dismissed them, and crept along the hallway toward a distant light, single-file, senses alert for any sound at all.

In the lead, Erik Jeffries suddenly stepped back into the shadows and motioned the others to do likewise. They froze. Something came slowly along the connecting hallway where a dim light played over the floor and made the place resemble a haunted mansion. The four pressed their bodies against the uneven expanse, and waited and listened.

Someone was moving into the light at the center of the other corridor, someone with a strange cadence to his or her movements. _Thump-step-thump-step …_ A man emerged across from them, limping, with the aid of a cane clasped in his right hand. His foot was injured … or his leg. He looked momentarily to his left and to his right as he passed through the crosswalks of the corridors. But he was in the light and they were in the dark. Invisible. He continued on, and did not see them. His steps faded in the distance.

"That …" Greene asked incredulously, "… was a _doctor?_"

"Patient, maybe." Lansa offered.

"No patient around here dresses like that!" Tavon observed. "He's wearing hundred-and-fifty-dollar athletic shoes!"

"Hundred-an'-fifty-dollar tennis shoes on a cripple?" Kurtz scoffed. "That's a fuckin' waste, aint it? Kinda like balls on a priest!"

"Never mind!" Tavon cautioned them. "I suppose there are a few crippled doctors working at hospitals around the country. Doesn't matter. Let's follow him … see where he's going."

They followed the man with the limp as he slowly disappeared into a brightly lit room just beyond. There were wonderful smells emanating from that room, and the four men suddenly realized how long it had been since they had eaten. They hung back in the doorway and watched as the crippled man limped over to a large coffee urn and began to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Jeffries and Lansa moved in cautiously. Besides the gimp, they were the only ones there. Might as well check out the lay of the land …

9:30 A. M.

Jeffries strode forward through the kitchen, his Glock trained on the group of people by the door and ignoring the three on the floor in front of the refrigerators. "Get your asses out here!" He ordered, motioning them through with the muzzle of the gun.

Sonny, Nikki and Alan did as they were told, afraid to be the cause of anyone else being injured, keeping their hands in sight, lining up beside the prep tables.

Last through the door, however, Susan Carr, trembling and whiny, lost it when she saw the gun pointing directly at her midsection. "Oh my God! Who are you? What do you want with us? What have you done to Dr. House? What's the matter with all of you? Can't you see he's crippled? Why have you hurt him? He can barely walk … you dirty cowards …"

And she was screaming invectives, leaping forward against the shoulder of Erik Jeffries, driving him backward, scratching hysterically at his face with her long fingernails, sobbing and pounding, hair falling into her face.

Jeffries whirled … 180 degrees on his heel … and caught her forearm in a death grip with the hand that wasn't holding the gun. "How would you like a bullet in your face, bitch?" He snarled. "Pull that shit one more time and you're a dead fuckin' broad!"

Susan could not control herself. She thrashed within his grasp and tried to pull her arm free. By this time, Sonny and Alan were both shouting at her to stop it before she was badly hurt. She did not seem to hear. She continued to pummel Jeffries' shoulder with her free hand until finally, he ended it.

Jeffries drew back his fist and slammed it into her cheekbone with all his weight behind it. She squeaked and doubled over at the middle, then sank to the floor and lay still. Jeffries straightened, never giving Susan Carr a second look. He brushed a stray strand of Susan's brittle black hair from his shoulder and retrained his pistol on the three faltering people still left standing.

From the back of the room, Kurtz was laughing, waving his own gun around and looking as though he would love to find an excuse to use it. Sonny, Nikki and Alan stared at Susan on the floor and then back up to Jeffries. "You had no call to do that!" Alan ventured. "She was frightened."

Jeffries laughed. "Yeah? And you're not? You weren't standing there screeching like my fuckin' grandmother's cat! Christ! Shutting her up was almost as good as shooting a yelping dog."

Jeffries stepped back a few paces, keeping his pistol trained on the trio, but looking down at the floor by the refrigerators to check on the motionless crippled doctor and his two cronies. He still looked to be out cold, and the other two had no eyes for anything other than his welfare. The young "pretty boy" doctor had the hurt one's head in his lap, his hands stroking the other one's hair as though he were a pet dog. The feisty little spook held one of his hands tightly between her own, stroking it gently. Jeffries decided the crippled one must be some important sawbones to have so many people worried about him.

"Go out to the truck and get that ball of clothesline rope," he told Tavon Greene. "If we want to get these assholes out of here, we gotta tie 'em up."

Tavon turned on his heel and left, going back the way they had come, on his way to the truck. It took him the better part of ten minutes to walk out there and back. In the meantime the gang members, one by one, helped themselves to sandwiches, fruit, coffee, donuts and other goodies from the larders and refrigerators.

When Tavon returned with the clothesline, a pair of sandwiches, a handful of potato chips and a glass of soda awaited him. "Get on the outside of that!" Kurtz told him. "We need to get these pill-pushers back to the boss."

Tavon nodded. The food disappeared quickly.

They bound Sonny Tse first. He was a big man, and powerful, but he gave them no trouble, just allowed himself to be trussed with his hands behind his back, his feet bound so he could barely walk, and led to the corner between a spice cabinet and the dining room doorway. They picked Wilson off the floor and away from Gregg House's side, ignoring his protests that he needed to monitor the other doctor's condition. Wilson was forced to join Sonny beside the door. They tied Susan's hands while she still lay on the floor. She moaned in pain, but did not protest. All the hysterics had gone from her.

They let Rema alone and allowed her to sit beside the unconscious "Crip", keeping him company and watching for any change in his condition. Gently, she straightened his body on the floor, turning him onto his back. She would not know if he had been injured anywhere else until he regained consciousness. She did notice, however, that his breathing patterns were beginning to change, and he was not far from coming out of it.

Rema looked up surreptitiously, trying to see if any of their invaders had noticed. But they were no longer paying any attention, and she decided they were under the impression that she was too old, and Gray Fox too badly hurt to cause any trouble. Rema smoldered inside, but hid her anger well. These idiots had a lot to learn! Casually, she leaned forward over House's head as she saw his eyelids begin to flutter.

"Shhh …" She warned quietly. "Try not to move. I know you're in pain, but they're taking us somewhere …"

His eyes opened slowly and he turned his face a fraction toward her and away from the scrutiny of anyone looking down. "Hurts," he managed to whisper.

Rema's eyes filled. She bent over his cheek and kissed it gently. "I know, dear. I know it hurts. Try to hold on."

"Where's … ?"

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah."

"He's okay. Hush now."

"'Kay …." He closed his eyes again.

Something was happening behind them. Rema looked up into the homely face of Erik Jeffries. "Let's go, jungle bunny! Time to come away from Peg Leg there and go along with us white trash …"

Rema looked daggers at him, but pulled herself away from House's side and allowed the lunkhead to drag her to her feet. They tied her hands and made her stand beside Sonny and the others. The only person still to be moved was Gregory House.

Lansa and Greene moved toward the refrigerators, looked down at the man on the floor, and noticed instantly that he was awake, arching his back and panting with the return of the pain. He would be no problem at all.

They reached down and picked him up, levering his considerable weight from beneath his arms and lifting him so they could place his arms over their shoulders. Gregg moaned when his right foot dragged across the floor, and the sound startled them. Tavon faltered and dropped Gregg's left arm, and that was when Gregg drew back his fist and smashed Greene square in the mouth with his powerful right arm.

Jeffries whirled with his gun in hand, taking in the scene and more than ready to dispose of the cripple once and for all.

He was distracted when James Wilson screamed at the top of his lungs from the opposite end of the room.

"_Nooooo … !"_

Instead, Jeffries flipped his gun to his left hand and drew back with menacing intent. He followed through with a metal-reinforced roundhouse punch as Gregg jerked backward. The blow landed just below his right eyebrow, laying open a gash down the side of his face, all the way to his jaw.

Wilson screamed again, straining at his bonds until Sonny blocked him with his broad shoulders to keep the man from lunging toward House and Jeffries with deadly hatred.

Jeffries stepped back toward the rest of his crew, smirking in sudden discovery. "Ahhh, wouldja lookit! It's the pretty boy … protecting his crippled pet grizzly bear. Don't worry, pretty boy. We're not gonna hurt your sick cub."

He turned to the three others and sheathed his pistol. "Let's get 'em out of here and back to that freakin' hole in the wall! Tavon, go get the truck and bring it up to the side door. No way in hell is anybody gonna see it out there. We'll pile these medicine men … and girls … in the back, and get the hell out of here. Give the rest of these here 'convention-goers' a little puzzle to come back to!"

Tavon left immediately.

House was unconscious again, bleeding from the cut on the side of his face, his feet scraping along the floor as Jeffries and Lansa dragged his limp body between them.

Restrained only by the tall presence of Sonny Tse, Wilson was going quietly nuts. He pulled at the ropes on his hands until his wrists bled in the effort to get to Gregg, but somehow Sonny held him back.

Rema and Nikki stood as close to him as they could squeeze their bodies against his, offering what solace and support they could. But Wilson was beyond their help. Tears coursed down his cheeks and he turned into Sonny's shoulder in embarrassment. He could not look at Gregg, crumpled like a rag doll, unconscious and bleeding.

What the hell was going on here? And what was going to happen to them now?

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	12. Chapter 12

- Chapter 12 –

"Hostages"

In one of his excursions back and forth from the big pickup truck, Tavon Greene had discovered that the big black HumVee near the rear entrance of Rez actually belonged to the hospital. He subsequently decided it would be the perfect vehicle to transport Jose away from there to meet the man with the cash. Great idea! He imparted his discovery to Kurtz and Jeffries, who readily agreed that a vehicle like that would indeed impress the money man when he saw them riding up in it.

As a consequence, Nikki was told that she would be driving the Hummer when they left the hospital to go where they were going, and if she did not cooperate, there would be one less big, tall, longhaired Navajo doctor to treat all the "Injun" patients at Reservation Hospital. Nikki had no illusions that they would not do as they said, and when the little caravan pulled out into the desert, Nikki was behind the wheel of the Hummer, following the big truck as closely as possible without getting swallowed by a cloud of red dust.

No one saw them leave except Amiga. Everyone else was busy, either with their daily shifts on the wards, or with the convention workshops, scheduled to continue until lunchtime.

Amiga stood in the shadow of the horse barn with a desert sidewinder hanging from her jaws. The snake was undulating slowly in its death throes. She was quick, this Burmese Mountain Dog, and wary. And smart. The snake she had just killed had a nest somewhere, and she was on a mission to find it. These snakes traveled in a sideways form of locomotion, their creamy bodies moving in an S-shaped curve. They lurked in the shadows searching for small prey, and they could be dangerous to livestock and humans alike. Amiga kept their numbers down, and every day she prowled the outbuildings, searching out their haunts.

Today she had been successful twice, and was ready to head back to the dining room for a breakfast that was not covered with sand. Thus, she was walking slowly up the lane, ready to search out some human companionship, when two noisy motor vehicles roared past her from the back of the building, headed into the desert. One of them she knew belonged to Sonny, her master. The other one, however, was not familiar. It smelled of strange choking fumes, and her nose wrinkled disgustedly. Not only were there humans inside this second vehicle … but also humans out in the open, in the large box area where people didn't usually ride.

Amiga caught another smell: the sharp metallic stench of blood … quickly there and then gone … and a salty, damp and cloying odor of fear. Anger. Panic. The dog stood and watched, confused.

Something was not right. She trembled and dropped the snake from her jaws. She stood frozen in place, watching the two huge trucks disappear into the desert in clouds of red dust. She sniffed the air again. And watched.

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Every bump in the road went through House like a knife. Every swerve of the tires, every stone run over and ricocheted outward, every bounce through the smallest pothole stood his hot-wired nerves on edge and added to this continuous nightmare. The effects of the Demerol had long since worn off, and the pain in his leg was excruciating, from the tips of his toes all the way into his spine.

Wilson, Sonny, Rema, Alan and Susan had been tied like sacks of grain and tossed into the back of the big pickup truck, secured to the sides with rope. House had escaped the hog-tie method only because he had been beaten to the point of total helplessness. He was pain-ridden enough that he posed no problem to anything or anybody.

The gang members had handled him less roughly than the others because he could not keep from moaning every time he had to move his leg, or have it moved for him. He could not silence himself any more than he could keep from breathing, and he felt like a complete coward for giving such loud voice to his pain. Everyone else knew he couldn't help it, but it did nothing to assuage his fierce pride.

House knew the thugs were only keeping him alive because he was a doctor, and somewhere along the line his skills might be needed to help "The Boss", whoever-the-hell that was! He lay crumpled in a corner of the pickup bed, very close to the tailgate where all the roiling red clay dust coated his clothing and his skin with layers of dirt and debris. Even though he buried his face and head between his rigidly braced arms and kept his eyes closed, the red dust still entered his mouth and nostrils as he breathed. There was no escaping it. The abrasion along the side of his face was caked with dirt and it burned like liquid fire from his eye to his chin. His injured leg lay stretched out behind him, and the throb was such that it felt as though the limb was at least as big around as he was tall, and ready to come off at the hip. In a way, he wished it would.

Gregg reached to his jacket pocket in search of his Vicodin bottle and fished it out with stiffened fingers. He rolled the cap between thumb and forefinger until it came off, and then clasped the lip of the bottle between index and middle fingers until two of them rolled into his hand. He let the bitter things dissolve in his cheek, knowing that to try to swallow them dry in this curtain of dust would surely choke him. He worked the lid back onto the bottle and held it cupped in his hand in the attempt to put it back in his pocket.

He could feel Wilson's wounded brown eyes watching him from the other side of the truck bed, but Wilson was trussed up to the point of being completely immobile. Gregg let his gaze lift to his friend for a moment, and they looked at one another in hopeless sympathy.

At that moment, the truck hit a pothole. The Vicodin bottle flew out of House's fingers as though it were a spinner on the end of a fishing line. Gone to the vagaries of the desert and the menacing red dust. Just that fast! He could not even make a grab for it. It would have been no use, and he was too weak. He glanced over at Wilson again, and saw the devastation in the kind face. Wilson was well aware of what the loss would mean in the hours to come. Rema and Sonny had seen it also, and they did not look any better. Gregg let his head fall back between his arms. He could not stand to look into those kind faces any longer. What was … was!

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In the cab of the pickup, Tavon Greene fought the steering wheel across the rough terrain and kept a watchful eye trained from time to time on the rear view mirror and both the side-views. Nikki was close behind in the Hummer, taking no chances at losing a friend. Tavon did not drive faster than fifty, the same as he had done going in the other direction. He did not want to completely smother his human cargo and have them useless when they were forced to tend to Jose Suarez.

At his side, Lansa said not a word until they were nearly back within sight of the Navajo Hogan. Then he frowned, cocked his head and looked at Tavon intently.

"What?" Greene asked. "Got something on your mind?"

"I was thinkin'." Lansa said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"How those docs gonna fix the boss? They aint got no pills or no doctor bags or nothin'." It was a simple statement of fact: a simple question from a simple man.

_Fuck!_

Tavon Greene slammed on the brakes. "Fuck!"

From the back seat, Randall Kurtz growled, "Now what?"

Greene swung around in the seat to glare at him. "We screwed up royally!" He spat. "Mark just asked me where all their 'doctor bags' were. We didn't let 'em get any of their instruments … or medication … or anything before we dumped 'em in the truck and carted 'em out here!"

"Son of a bitch!" Randall cursed. "Oh double-fucking son of a bitch! So how come nobody was fucking smart enough to think of that?"

Tavon snorted. "Yeah? Well, why didn't you??"

"I can't think of everything."

"It's gettin' more and more obvious you can't think of _anything_, Randall. If I were you, I'd watch _who_ the hell you were throwing around accusations at! Why the fuck didn't you check out the gun turrets before we went into the tech company? Huh? Why!"

"Up your ass!" Randall flung back, then clammed up rather than admit his less-than-perfect scouting job had had anything to do with the mess they'd found themselves in.

Beside him, Erik Jeffries guffawed loudly.

Randall Kurtz raised his left arm and smashed his fist into Jeffries' mouth to the point that Erik's lip split open and blood ran down his chin.

Jeffries squawked in surprise and pain and his hand went to his mouth. He would have begun a mini-war in the middle of the back seat, had not Mark Lansa reached back with an iron-fisted left arm and punched both of them in the jaw faster than they ever saw it coming. "Shut the fuck up!" He growled and turned back around in his seat.

Silence reigned.

00000000

In the bed of the truck, House slid forward when the big vehicle slammed to a halt. He flung out both arms to stop his forward momentum, and managed to latch onto Sonny's pant leg before he careened into the cab of the truck with both legs. This, however, did not stop him from swinging around on the rough bed and suffering yet another trauma to his inflamed leg. He sank his teeth into his coat cuff to keep from screaming out loud, and rolled over onto his left side, unable to hold off the sobs.

Behind them in the Hummer, Nikki only had a moment to react. As the brake lights of the truck popped on, she managed to veer off the side of the road, narrowly missing the bumper of the Ford.

Across from House, Wilson struggled once more against his restraints in the effort to get to his friend. Sonny lowered his dark head and pressed it hard against Wilson's right shoulder, holding him back with the strength of his body.

"Jimmy, don't! You can't help him right now. He has to do for himself. He has no choice. I don't know what the hell's going on up in the cab of the truck, but we shouldn't draw attention to ourselves. They might come back here, and if they do, it wouldn't go well for Gregg. He's hurt enough. If he has to take too much more, they might kill him outright. They mustn't think he'd be useless to them! Relax, Jimmy. Let it go. For Gregg and for yourself." Sonny backed off, raised his head, pinning Wilson to the rail of the truck bed with a dark stare.

With effort, Wilson let his tensed muscles relax. He expelled a ragged sigh and bowed his head. He did not want Sonny to see him lose it. His voice came out in a strangled whisper. "I can't _stand_ to see him hurt like this!"

"I know."

"He's … my life!"

"I know, Jim … He'll be all right. He's made of strong stuff. I can't say much for his leg anymore, but he'll be all right. He _will_!"

Wilson nodded. He could not trust himself to speak again.

00000000

In the cab of the truck, things were taming down. Tavon let off the brake and the vehicle moved forward. They were only a few miles from the Hogan. In spite of everything, Tavon believed himself to be the voice of reason. He had suggested that they take their captive doctors to the Hogan and let them check Suarez. Let them do their "hands-on" thing that doctors were supposed to be famous for. If they didn't find anything, then he, Tavon, would take the little female doctor and return to the hospital for whatever supplies they would need for a quick diagnosis and treatment.

"So we fucked up royally," he said. "So we'll fix it!"

00000000

Sonny and Nikki exchanged swift glances when they were yanked roughly out of the two vehicles and dragged inside the Hogan. Both were both aware of the Hogan's significance, and were not surprised to see a slender young man sitting inside, trussed with ropes and propped against the north wall close to the excavated hole. He had dark angry eyes and long black hair, much like Sonny's. He might have passed for Sonny's younger brother.

The others were brought in one by one, their bindings checked, and then they were lined up along the wall with the rest. Gregg House was carried in by Hosteen Tull and Randall Kurtz and flopped unceremoniously on the floor. He was barely conscious, but the trauma of his leg hitting the floor caused him to moan in distress and writhe about again with the intensity of his pain. They left him there.

Tavon walked over to Sonny and James. "Get up!" He said.

Both men struggled to their feet and stood looking around. They could not help noticing the unmoving body of the older man, lying prone on the cot across from them. Now they both knew why, indeed, they had been brought here.

"Check him out!" Tavon ordered. "We think he got hit on the head when our van blew up. He was okay for about an hour afterward, and then collapsed. He hasn't moved since, and that was going on two days ago."

Wilson and Tse looked at each other, and then to the man on the cot. "We can't do anything to help him unless you untie us. Probably can't do much anyway, since you didn't let us bring any instruments along … not even a stethoscope."

"Erik, untie their hands. Not their feet. Don't want anybody taking off … we'd have to shoot 'em."

Jeffries grinned through his bloody lip. "Yeah. Too bad if that happened, huh?" He released the ropes from their wrists, and Wilson and Sonny moved closer to Saurez's limp body.

"Take the blanket off and straighten out his arms and legs," Wilson suggested.

Jeffries and Tull did as they were told and moved away, watching. It was like moving a sack of oats. James and Sonny exchanged glances again.

Uh oh … 

They touched his skin. Cooling. Lifted his eyelids and stared, index and middle fingers at the carotid artery. Thready. This man was dying. It didn't take medical instruments to know that. They stepped back and looked around. Each man wondered what would happen if they imparted the bad news right away. If they did, they were of no more use to these animals. They did not wish to be the cause of anyone's demise. Wilson pulled the blanket back over his body.

"We need drugs," Sonny told them. "We need our diagnostic equipment. This man is at the edge of going into a coma. We can't help him if we have nothing to help him _with_!"

Tavon walked across to Rema Marks and motioned her to her feet. "Let's go, little woman. You and I are heading back to the hospital. You find us what they need, and then we'll bring it back. You try any tricks, and your hospital will be a pile of tinder in the middle of the freakin' desert!"

Rema stood up and eyed him with disdain. Her gaze shifted to James and Sonny, her eyebrows shifting minutely. "I'm ready," she said shortly. "Let's go!" She turned her attention exclusively to Wilson. "I'll try to bring something for Gregg. Nothing must happen to him." She winked and turned; having done everything she could to console him.

"Thanks," she heard him say softly as they walked out the hole in the wall. She hoped Greene would allow her to get to the drug room …

The pickup started noisily, swung around in front of the Hummer, and they were gone.

"Who are you?" Sonny asked the younger man by his side as his hands were being secured behind his back once more.

"Elan." The man said. "Atcitty. I am the watcher of this place. I am the keeper of the mustang known as Spirit Wind. I watch over the _chindi_ house. We should not be in here!"

Sonny nodded. "I understand. I am a singer. Later, we will begin the Ghost Way. The others … they will not know."

"That is good."

Wilson watched the conversation as his own hands were secured behind his back and he was pushed roughly against the wall. He did not understand the exchange between Sonny and the other man. He did not ask.

Outside, the wind picked up and blew dust devils on the hard-packed red dirt. The painted mustang in the rough-hewn corral bucked and snorted.

On the floor of the Hogan, House moaned, and his breath caught in his throat. He tried to move, and cried out again in pain. His body stilled, finally.

It got very quiet.

Guns were at the ready.

They waited.

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138


	13. Chapter 13

- Chapter 13 -

"Mustang"

House could not keep his body from trembling. Every time he moved, the pain spiked in a crescendo that he feared was driving him slowly insane. He had been kicked, dragged and pummeled by the bald-headed freak and his tall, dark crony until he was bruised, lacerated and broken.

Even now, as he sat with his back leaning against the rough wall of the Chindi House, as the gang members called it, his anger and hatred escalated by the moment. Wilson's fevered head lay still as death in his lap, most of its weight pressing directly on the infarction site and sending spikes of fiery agony through Gregg's body. He would rather die than move, however, fearful of causing James even more trauma than he had already suffered. The long slender fingers of House's right hand rested tenderly along the right temple and cheek of Wilson's battered face, and tangled affectionately in the filthy auburn hair.

Randall Kurtz, the angry Texan, watched, disgusted. "Fuckin' fags!" He muttered under his breath.

THREE HOURS EARLIER:

In the afternoon, they'd all been herded in here at gunpoint and everyone had been trussed hand and foot. The bald-headed bull, Erik Jeffries, had grabbed House's legs to try to tie them together at the ankles. Gregg had kicked out with his sound leg in nervous reflex and cried out, causing Jeffries to drop his feet and jump back in alarm. House screamed in agony as the fire flared into his spine when his feet hit the hard-packed floor, instantly bathing his body in sweat and causing him to thrash backward, drawing into himself as the intensity of his pain began to nauseate him, taking his breath away.

Jeffries turned away in disgust. "Fuck it! Why bother … you're not going anywhere, are ya, Peg Leg?" Viciously he kicked out at House's legs, connecting solidly with the calf and knee of the crippled one. Jeffries snorted derisively as he walked back across the room, deriving pleasure from listening to Gregg's outcries.

Already bound with rope, hands tightly secured behind his back, Wilson could not believe his eyes at the cruelty meted out to a man so severely injured that he had no hope of defending himself.

Wilson found himself held in restraint by Mark Lansa, the big Hopi. The Indian's strong fingers were entwined in the gaping neck of James' filthy tee shirt. Wilson dug his boots into the dirt floor and strained forward in panic, fearing for Gregg's sanity. "No! You can't do that to him! Can't you see he's not able to fight you? Please don't hurt him anymore! He's a _doctor,_ for God's sake!"

"Wilson! Stop it! I'm all right!" House choked from the floor.

He was writhing in pain, and Wilson could see he was _not_ all right. He was bloody and bruised along the right side of his face and neck, and a laceration at his eyebrow seeped blood down over his cheekbone. His crippled leg lay in an awkward position on the floor. For a moment Wilson despaired of his friend ever walking again.

"_House!"_ Wilson yelled.

In desperation, James twisted in Lansa's grasp, and his considerable strength tore at the tee-shirt material until it finally ripped free. Lansa lashed out with a glancing blow and connected with Wilson's right cheek, drawing blood and spinning him around until he had to scramble to regain his balance.

With a howl of anger, Wilson sprang forward in protective rage as he saw House's face go deathly pale. Head down, the young doctor aimed straight across toward Jeffries' midsection, and might have made it, had Kurtz not taken in the scene from across the room, pulled his pistol with cruel determination, and fired a bullet into Jim Wilson's abdomen. "Fuckin' pretty boy asshole!" He snarled.

Wilson gasped, eyes panicked, and dropped to the floor like a stone, twisting onto his side in agony.

"No-oooo! … Wil-son …"

House pulled himself frantically on his elbows to James' side. Sobbing in horror and misery, dead leg dragging useless behind him, he curled his upper body tightly around his friend's shoulders. They yanked him off again and flung him against the wall beside Nikki, who butted her shoulder against him in support.

"Untie my hands and let me help Dr. Wilson!" Nikki screamed. "He'll die!"

Lansa almost added Nikki's body to the pile of wounded, but pulled back just in time when he realized what she was struggling to do. He pushed Nikki and the injured Wilson roughly against the wall to House's right, but then assessed the situation and finally loosened the ropes on her hands and retied them in front. "There! Now you can take care of 'Pretty Boy'!" His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Sonny and Elan and the others lay impotently on their sides further away, staring in alarm and biting back words of bitter hatred.

At House's side, Nikki Asdza bent forward as far as she could manage over Wilson's curled body. "Gregg … take off your jacket, dear … can you?"

Heartsick and weeping, House struggled out of his sport coat, and then handed it over to her while Jeffries, Lansa and Kurtz watched suspiciously.

Hosteen Tull, disgusted with the whole business, turned on his heel and walked outside.

"Using both shackled hands, Nikki rolled House's jacket with the satin side turned outward, and pressed it hard against the wound in James' gut in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, and perhaps deaden the fury of his pain, if that was possible. Wilson moaned softly. Unlike the others who sprawled in an array of awkward positions with their feet bound tightly and hands tethered so they could barely move, Nikki was allowed to remain sitting with Wilson beside the quietly moaning Gregory House, who was completely unshackled because he was regarded as no threat at all.

Nikki pressed the jacket tighter against the younger man's wound as their captors had sneered: "… keep 'pretty boy's' blood from running all over the fuckin' floor …"

Jose Suarez still lay senseless on the cot, doomed to whatever fate awaited him, since even the best of doctors could not treat someone without anything to treat him _with_, and there were no medical accouterments anywhere for them to take even an educated guess as to his condition.

His men blamed each other for "… fucking up royally, _again …_" while the captured doctors merely exchanged disgusted glances.

Across the room, Jeffries, the bald-headed lout, and Randall Kurtz, the cowboy, stood with their guns cocked and ready, zealously guarding six hog-tied, frightened medical people and one horse whisperer with a bad attitude, who remained undaunted and was not in the least bit frightened. One of the mistreated was a half hysterical woman with a big mouth who had long been beaten into submission; and the last two were wounded or crippled or both.

Sonny watched surreptitiously from the sidelines as Tavon, the most intelligent one of the bunch, headed back to the hospital in the big pickup truck with the eighth hostage, heavily trussed Dr. Rema Marks, in tow. Greene would probably force her to help him steal the medical equipment if he had to, in hopes of determining what was wrong with their boss, whose inaccessible brain held all the information vital to his gang's successful getaway. Sonny pursed his lips at the thought. The idiot certainly did not know Rema!

Just beyond the hole in the wall, Hosteen Tull, the other hacker, once again lounging and unconcerned after the excitement inside, leaned his back into the stones of the Hogan's structure. Puffing on another cigarette, he kept a watchful eye for anything out of the ordinary, his tall shadow falling across the opening and seeming almost as skulking and greasy as he was in the flesh.

The shadows of late evening were beginning to fall, and the hostage takers had been buzzing among themselves. It was over three hours since Green and the little black doc had left for the hospital. Every minute that passed decreased their chances of a successful completion of this lucrative scheme, and if Suarez wasn't brought out of his coma, or whatever it was, to complete the connection to their "fence", nobody was going to see any part of the many millions of dollars hanging in the balance.

00000000

When darkness fell, the only illumination in the Chindi House came from the meager fire the trio of idiots had built in the small fireplace. After a short interval, shadows began to flicker on the walls and seemed to dance in the very air around them. Subtle breezes lifted the corners of the counterpane on the cot where Suarez lay, and fluffed the hair and clothing of the trussed hostages grouped together on the floor.

In the Hogan's single window, feathers fluttered and danced on the Suncatcher, which no longer caught the sun because the sun had long-before dipped below the horizon. In the middle of the room, the Medicine Wheel spun faster and faster on its tether, winding up, winding down. On the floor, Gregory House, still groggy and half uncomprehending, watched it from the fringes of consciousness, wondering idly why this phenomenon existed, since the outside air was still and hot and heavy.

_Injun Magic,_ his fogged brain insisted on telling him.

In the paddock across from the house, the painted mustang stallion whickered and snorted and tossed his head and pawed the ground, and Gregg also wondered why he was hearing these sounds so clearly. He must be hallucinating. His awareness drifted upward slowly, causing him to hiss through his teeth as the misery once again surged upward, seeking a stranglehold wherever it could.

His pain was a living thing, gnawing at his back, his pelvis, his injured leg and his most recent serious injury to his foot and ankle. It snarled and growled inside him, eating at his spinal column and feeding on his depleted endurance until he felt as though it was virtually consuming him from the inside out.

Even when the infarction was still new, and the initial pain driving him toward the possible release of death, he could not remember it being more elevated than this. He was fast losing his grasp on reality, and rapidly sinking back toward semi-consciousness. He needed a Vicodin desperately, but they, like his ability to reason, had been lost to the exacting cruelty of the desert.

If he was not allowed to move soon and try to get beyond the pain, he feared he might soon lose his fight for consciousness forever. A rush of bitter tears wound their way down his filthy cheeks, making rivulets through the dirt and dried blood, and dropped off his chin. Suddenly he was sobbing, the sounds rasping from his throat in pain, frustration and anger. Almost puzzled at his unstable thoughts, he suddenly realized that his anguish was as much for Wilson, gasping beside him, as for his own uncontainable pain.

_Oh God … Not Wilson!_

From across the room an angry voice taunted him: "Shut the fuck up, you goddamn pussy!"

Darkness and the cloying heat had begun to make the gang members lethargic, less attentive to their hostages. To a man, they had all watched in puzzlement, but not alarm, as the strange breezes gave life to all the Native American artifacts in the small room. From the Medicine Wheel to the Suncatcher, to the blanket on the cot and the table cover, the dance of the breezes had them all staring at the shadows dazedly.

Something undefined and unnamed had taken control for a few moments, but then had relinquished its hold and was gone as quickly as it arrived. The heat clamped down again. The Suarez gang barely noticed.

A strange whistling could be heard outside the Hogan, and the Navajos looked pointedly at one another. They all knew what this place was. The fact that the door was sealed and the North wall was the way they'd entered the building, told them that someone had died here. In the traditional beliefs of their people, when a person died, their good spirit went to _ciditah_, or the Spirit World, and the evil part of the person remained on Earth as _chindi_.

_Chindi_ caused all kinds of problems, including sickness and misfortune. The fact that half the people present in the Hogan were hurt or sick seemed an especially bad omen to the three.

Against the wall, Sonny Tse began the Ghost Way Chant; the Navajo legacy taught by tribal elders from every succeeding generation down through the ages and dating back to the time when his earliest ancestors had crossed the Land Bridge of the Northern Continent to a strange new world. Sonny hoped that by singing the Chant, it would allay the evil spirit that he knew resided there.

The Chant hung in the air, dancing, undulating like a ripple in the Time River, flowing nebulously toward the conscious mind of Elan, sitting next to him; tumbling downward until the Chant flowed in cascading eccentricities from Elan's throat also.

The _chindi_ of Hokee Pino, the man who had died there, stirred angrily and moved away from the Ghost Way chanters. The old song caused the malevolent Spirit considerable distress. While Elan was not a Singer himself, the fact that Sonny was indeed one of them, seemed to discourage the Spirit from coming closer.

Nicole Asdza was the last to hear the Chant. In her mind she heard the urgency in the heart of Suni, and the animal spirit of Elan whose Thunder Horse awoke the restless Spirits of the mustangs on the prairie and sang away the ghost of Hokee Pino, his mentor. Nikki tried to hold her voice strong as it created a strange harmony with the other two, and her breath joined in the Chant.

And Hokee Pino's spirit skulked soundlessly among them, seeking a place where the musical power of the Ghost Way was not pervading.

Gregory House heard the Chanting as a distant echo within his clouded mind, and wondered briefly what it was about. He could hear them repeating the name, "Hokee Pino" over and over, but it didn't make sense. His pain ebbed for a moment, and lucidity returned, fleeing in the brief pause of the Chant. Then it reawakened and the Chant drifted again into the background.

_HokeePinoHokeePinoHokeePino …_

Their captors looked at each other in question. Only Hosteen, still lounging outside, knew what was going on, but scoffed in annoyance at the stupid old Chant. Like the others who remained vaguely unaware, he said nothing.

A tiny reflexive twitch of the fingers on his left hand was Jose Suarez's only reaction to the Song.

The _chindi_ whistled, and the sound of a tree falling with a crash could be heard outside, even though there were no trees anywhere nearby. Hostage takers and captors looked at each other that time with some concern. But no one moved to investigate.

The _chindi_ drifted toward the men with the guns and found that no Chant came from their lips. They did not know the powers of the spirits. Smiling in its own way, the _chindi_ swirled around them and entered their beings undetected …

00000000

Midnight:

Gregory House awoke by degrees from restless oblivion, to the last flickers of the guttering fire, and tried to angle a look at his watch. It was the middle of the night and it seemed the gunmen were all asleep, or at least nodding. Wilson's head still rested heavily on his bad leg, and the man's breaths were labored and shallow. House pressed down with index and middle fingers on the carotid artery: rapid and weak. James' skin was cool and clammy and he was deep in shock.

Beside him, spooned close against his back, Nikki's supporting arm was around James' middle, still holding the ruined sport jacket against Wilson's gut, her head on his shoulder blade, half asleep and half senseless from remaining in the same position for so long. House knew how she probably felt. The bottom half of his body was nearly numb, so the effects of James' head bearing down on his surgical scar had its own benefits. He felt no pain because both legs were dead asleep.

House looked around, assessing the room. Beyond them in the darkness, deep breathing indicated that the others were most likely asleep also, exhausted from their earlier ordeal. Susan Carr, the young, spoiled screamer of the group, lay there like the dead, the welt on her cheekbone standing out in the last of the firelight as she breathed deeply also, in and out. Jeffries had struck her with his full weight behind it earlier in the day, and it had shut her up for good.

Beyond Susan, young Tam was sleeping too, but the two Navajo men, the whites of their eyes glittering in the dim half-light, were not. House's lip lifted a trace in satisfaction and he raised his right hand in the air to gain their attention. He saw the glitter disappear as their focus centered on him. He nodded to them both, and pointed from the middle of his chest to the nearby hole in the wall. He felt, rather than saw, their heads move side to side … alarmed. Warning him:

_No!_

But he knew his closer proximity to the dying fire would illuminate him just enough for them to see his head nod a contradiction in return.

_Yes!_ _I have to do this!_

A touch to Nikki Asdza's wrist roused her instantly and he motioned her to lift James' head off his leg.

Thinking House was probably in agony, she did so immediately, and repositioned James gently with his head now resting on his own upper arm. House paused a moment and caressed Wilson's thick, filthy hair affectionately with his fingers. Then he began to ease himself away soundlessly, dragging himself toward the way out.

Behind him he could feel three sets of terrified eyes boring frantically into his face. What were they going to do? Yell: "Come Back Here!"? He smiled, his face flashing grotesquely in the dying glow of the firelight, and continued to pull his body backward on his ass, a few inches at a time.

Gregg kept at it, slowly dragging, holding his breath against telltale noise. In a few minutes his leg would regain feeling. What would follow after that would not be pleasant. He hadn't had a Vicodin since just before noon, and neither did he have his cane or the crutches to lean on. He could not place weight on the foot, and the fresh injury to his bad leg would not allow him to hold it off the ground. Screwed!

Carefully, and by degrees, he dragged himself backward, away from the hole in the wall, away from the sleeping Tull, and through the red clay dirt in the general direction of the HumVee. Could he drive it? Could he even manage to stand long enough to get into the damned thing? He could see it looming like a dark space against the dim starlight, its contours looming above him like a hole in the sky, backed in against the side of the Hogan.

His leg was waking up, at first tingling, then pulsing with the onset of long-awaited revenge. He could feel the damaged nerves pinging from the inside out like violin strings pulled too tight. The remaining muscles responding with cramping, clonic spasms that made the leg jump with abrupt and forceful contractions.

He stopped to rest for a moment, wrapping both arms around his middle and hugging tightly, knowing what was coming. House buried his mouth as deeply between his shoulder and ribcage as he could manage, and leaned his body as far forward as he could, bending further and further over the injured limb while the spasm continued to build.

If he weren't in such agony, the whole thing would be fucking hilarious. And if their lives weren't in such peril right now, he might even laugh until his throat was raw, just to vocalize the terrible anger, and release part of the pain that ripped through his body.

When the violence finally ended with intermittent spastic twitches still remaining, Gregg found himself limp with exhaustion, his back shoved against the wide wheelbase of the Hummer. He couldn't remember how he'd got there, or when. He hoped he had the strength to hotwire, and then actually drive the damned thing out of there. He smiled for a moment and scraped at the tears running down his face. He began to look about for a means to pull himself to his feet.

His eye caught on the contour of the big front tire, and the smile of triumph dropped like lead into the dirt.

_Oh no! Oh God! No! _

The tire was flat. He jerked his head around in the other direction and stared. The rear one was flat also. The sons of bitches had knifed the tires!

He moaned softly, letting the hurt and frustration find a voice. His tears glistened on his cheeks, mourning his dilemma, barely able to sit up, certainly unable to walk, pleading for soothing hands to come to the rescue.

House wept for the dear friend he was about to lose, and for that which his barren life would surely become without James Wilson at his side to give it meaning. He wept for the profession he loved, but with which he was barely able to cope physically, even as it was; and now to which he would probably never return. And he wept for the missed opportunities he'd allowed to fall by the wayside while he commiserated over the loss of function in the fucking leg!

"_And is everything the leg?"_

Wilson's words in his head again: words of wisdom and calm reason, and a friend's exasperation and concern.

He was so stupid! He'd been ready to give up in the face of one setback. He could not drive the Hummer, simply because the Hummer probably had four flat tires, thanks to that quartet of assholes back in the Hogan.

Chances were good, that without function in his leg, and now the foot also, he probably could not drive it anyhow. Point taken! But he'd gotten this far, hadn't he? His intellect was screaming at him in a voice as loud, if not louder, than the insistent one in his brutalized body. If he didn't find a way to bring help out here, James Wilson would not survive to see the sun come up!

NO! 

James was the one person who had stayed by his side all these years, ignoring his abuse, ignoring his juvenile outbursts, ignoring his whining and his picking at anything and everything. James picked back in the face of his hostility. Loudly! James prodded him constantly to get outside himself, preaching at him to get-the-hell back to P.T., bitching about his habit of sneaking cigarettes, arguing about everything he could think of where Gregg's anger was concerned, nagging him to take better care of himself.

James was there … soothing him when the pain overwhelmed him, encouraging him every time he took the tiniest baby step toward something different in his self-indulgent life. James supported his stubborn stance where a patient was concerned, caring about what he thought and what he needed, worrying over every little expression of discomfort.

"Ahhh …"

Well … _fuck_ the leg! Stacy, damn her, had been right!

"It's _just a leg!_"

Of course he would have given up the leg to save her life, as she had asked of him all those years before.

And now …

For Wilson, anything!

His own life?

Anything! 

If he was injured beyond redemption for the attempt, so be it. If he succeeded, Wilson would be alive whether he was still around to see it or not. His only worry had to do with how much strength remained, and whether or not he had the guts to endure more pain. After all these years of playing around, joking around, messing around and screwing around … would he give up the leg to save Wilson's life?

The answer was the same: _"Of course I would!"_

House smiled, and it spread across his face. His head fell backward and bonked against the door of the Hummer. He smiled and bonked his head again, happily. He was beyond pain. He was still hiccupping from the damned crying, and the anger and the continuous trauma, but this new feeling that spread across his consciousness was neutralizing everything else.

House took a deep hitching breath and expunged it through billowing cheeks. He faced what now had to be done with new determination. He was here, and it was the middle of the night. He had an opportunity before him, sitting up and begging right in front of his nose, waiting for him to throw the damn ball and get back in the game.

Gregg eased his head forward from between his shoulders, exhausted from the tremors, but once again clear-headed. The catharsis was over and he had faced a few demons he never knew he had. It was time to decide, reassess his thinking if he were ever to realize a new possibility.

His head fell back again, against the door of the Hummer, and he listened to the night. Somewhere out on the desert a tumbleweed rolled, a night bird swooped low to catch a mouse in its talons, a sidewinder flopped its scaled body in the sand and left S-shaped tracks behind. The neigh of communication from a wild horse herd wafted backward like a wraith in the harshness of the open prairie.

But it was all relative … all of it! There was suddenly a renewed and more powerful goal. Gregg hit the door of the Hummer a final "bonk". Was this what it was like to knock some sense into one's head?

It was time!

Across from the HumVee, the half-broke mustang lifted his head and nickered deep in his throat, answering the sound from the distant herds, circling the small paddock, head up, ears gear-shifting back and forth. He snorted and began to buck, crow-hopping, stiff-legged, across the length of the paddock. A four-legged sidewinder!

Exhausted, House listened. He could hear the horse moving around, scraping unshod hooves in the dusty hard-packed earth, blowing huge draughts of air through his nostrils, then calming down for a short interval, pulling mouthfuls of hay out of the rolled bale before him. Then he would snort and blow again as he searched for any remainder of the oats he'd eaten hours before. Gregg heard him move to the water trough and splash in it, chugging the water in gallon-sized gulps. Horses were noisy eaters, noisy movers, noisy breathers, noisy everything, even when they were being relatively quiet. And this one wasn't. This one was restless, nose to the wind. Bored. Smelling action, and longing for a part of it.

Gregg's mind clunked into overdrive.

"Unhh … damned four-legged sidewinder! Got the brains of a brick! Why don't you shut-the-hell up before you wake up every asshole in the place!"

Gregg jerked his attention in the direction of the corral. An idea germinating: a horse was the original biological bicycle. You got on, grabbed the handlebars and pedaled like hell.

"HiYo Silver!" That's how you beeped a horse-horn!

House wondered if someone who had the use of only one leg could ride a horse. Or even get on one!

Maybe, but it would hurt like hell. As it was, every jar, every jostle, vibration, jiggle, shaking-up, pressure on this leg caused fiery demons to shoot .45 caliber hollow points into his hip and spine.

Could he straddle this creature … if it would even let him get near it? Could he ride it back to the hospital to get help without breaking his neck … or his ass … or the leg in question?

The last time he'd ridden a horse had been … how long ago? Hell, he couldn't even remember. But like bike riding and swimming, you didn't forget, right? And he knew he could still swim. He'd tried it once, a year or so ago, although Wilson had teased him unmercifully:

"You look a lot less like a dolphin and more like a submarine … haw-haw-haw!"

_Wilson …_

If he could summon help in time, Wilson would not have to die!

House squirmed around and clenched his teeth, aimed his butt for the paddock with the muscles of his arms aching, because he had already dragged his crippled ass halfway to Tuba City. He heaved slowly across the nasty red clay by degrees.

The effort it required gave a whole new meaning to the phrase: "Hauling Ass!" It couldn't be helped. An inch at a time, he struggled across the ground. He didn't know anymore if the tears running down his cheeks were from laughing at his own stupid jokes, or sobbing from the pain.

When he finally made it to the palings of the splintery, weather-beaten fence a few minutes later, the horse stood at the opposite side, snuffing and snorting curiously, stretching out his incredibly long neck to sniff at the apparition moving toward him without actually moving any closer himself. If nothing else, horses were curious beasts. They had crappy long-range vision, so they had to look at stuff up close, evidently by craning their necks and trying to imitate giraffes.

House was glad the damned animal hadn't come near him, at least not yet. He was not interested in losing the use of a hand in the bargain. He reached out to grasp the lowest rail of fence. The wood was rough-cut and jagged, and he'd have to be careful. Could he stand? He did not know, but the thought of even an extra ounce of weight on his injured foot sent shivers of dread down his spine like lightning down a lightning rod. Fear of pain was as bad as the pain!

Gregg gathered his shoulders in preparation, scraping his left leg backward in an effort to get it underneath him, and pushed upward, shaking, clinging to the fence, hopping clumsily to find a precarious balance. The movement jarred the bad side and brought tears to his eyes yet again. He bit down on his lip.

"Unhh …"

Miraculously the left leg held, but the right one was like an old marionette with the strings missing. "Fucking thing might as well be gone," he muttered. "And I'd be twenty-five pounds lighter! Stacy was right after all!"

_Knock that shit off!_

He climbed with both hands, one over the other, until his shoulders were even with the top rail, and he leaned there with both arms thrown over, trying to ease off some of the weight. The toe of his right foot dragged the ground after all, the ankle wrecked, the foot swollen over the top of the shoe and desperately sore.

The big pinto stallion … must be sixteen hands if he was an inch … stood wary across from him, snorting through his nostrils as though ready to run. He did not look frightened. Far from it! More than willing to fight if he had to. House stared, and the stallion stared back. He must get in there and convince that smelly beast to allow him to mount. But how? He gathered himself, attempting to move toward the gate. He called upon the shrieking muscles of his right leg to lift the foot off the ground, but they couldn't. They were too far gone to respond, and nothing but a painful twitch answered his brain's command.

_Fuck!_

He must try to hop the rest of the way and torture himself by jarring the unresponsive limb along in his wake. Eventually, he solved the problem by hanging onto the top rail to swing his body sideways a few feet at a time.

House felt splinters jabbing beneath the skin of his hands, stinging like needles going in, but there was nothing else he could do. He found himself inside the paddock without any idea how he'd achieved such a feat. When he looked back, he found the rawhide-tethered gate hanging wide open, and he had not the wherewithal to close it again.

In the darkness, his left hand encountered a strange length of leather strapping, and he investigated its contours as a blind man investigates Braille. Head strap, brow band, noseband, metal grommets fastened lower down: a hackamore. Good. He would need it. He hoped he could convince this ugly plug that they both needed it! He struggled on.

Gregg was exhausted. Somehow, with all this insane crap going on, he'd forgotten how draining it was for him to remain on one foot for an extended length of time. With great care, he eased himself further along the fence in the direction of the watering trough, which was made of heavy wood and pitch, and looked sturdy indeed. If he could just sit down on the edge of it for even a few minutes, perhaps he could regain enough strength to do what he still had to do. His hands burned like fire from hanging his entire weight on them, even for so short a time, and a multitude of splinters jabbed his skin like tiny swords.

Across the paddock, the stallion watched him as he crawled along, finally pushing away from the fence to lean his aching body on the edge of the watering trough with his back turned, bending forward over the water in misery. Wearily, he splashed water onto his face. It felt refreshing, and he licked droplets of it from his lips. He lowered his chin to his chest and his breaths came in shallow pants. He was so tired.

He turned around with tortured caution and sat on the edge, his swollen foot scraping the ground. He bent down and released the shoestrings of the fancy sneaker and drew it off. Leaning over the infarction site didn't bother him much anymore. It couldn't hurt any worse than it already did. The empty shoe rolled over on the ground and raised a puff of red dust.

The stallion snorted again and tossed his head, prancing sideways in the opposite direction. Gregg ignored him, bending down to touch his foot tenderly. The ankle had gone over and he was resting weight on the side of the foot. He hadn't even noticed. He was clinging to consciousness with stubborn determination.

Behind him, he could hear the impatient snorting and pawing of the ground. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment in an effort to ease the salty sting of his own reeking perspiration that caused them to burn, and more tears to run down his blood-smeared cheeks. He contemplated serious salt depletion flirting with the need to take a leak, and he nearly let himself fall into high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

_No!_

Someone would come running. He pulled his zipper down and pissed, hands burning and aching. His slender, graceful hands didn't look much like doctor's hands anymore. He wished the horse would shut up and just stand still. He sighed, sated, and zipped up again. He could feel his foot swelling hurtfully as he sat there, joining the chorus of all his other aches.

He did not distinguish the scrape of unshod hooves on red-packed clay that came ever closer to his back, or the moist huffing of flared nostrils as the curious mustang sniffed at the filthy sweat-saturated shirt just beyond his outstretched muzzle. House was feeling sorry for himself at that moment, in spite of his desperation to come to the aid of those trussed up like pork sausages in the Hogan.

He was very close to the limits of what he could stand physically, and his head was beginning to spin. It hadn't been a wise decision to close his eyes, he decided. The action had shut off the entire universe around him and left him in a featureless, airless limbo that contained no bearings with which to center himself. He did not wish to fall backward into the watering trough or fall forward to swipe up the desert floor with the abrasions on his face. He grasped the edge of the trough and opened his eyes and found himself listing dangerously to the left. He hitched upright quickly, blinking the world back into perspective, hissing from the added pain in the damned leg.

The sudden movement spooked the stallion, and the animal shied back with another snort. Gregg spun about, startled also, and paid for it with another burst of pain through his foot, his leg, his hip, and into his spine. He nearly lost his grip on the edge of the watering trough.

"Getting brave, are you, you prick?" He had nearly lost his voice in the dryness and heat of the desert, and because he suddenly discovered he had been breathing through his mouth, not a good idea. His leg pinged another warning when he cleared his throat. "How brave are you, you asshole? You horse's ass? How'd you like to be a hero? I _can't_ be a hero. It's all I can do to stay vertical, so you'll have to be one for me!"

He was beginning to ramble incoherently. Babbling nonsense. He felt drunk, but he hadn't been drinking. "A hero you shall be, horse! You scroungy four-legged sidewinder!

"I must be the new Lone Ranger, and you must be Sidewinder. 'Hi-Yo Sidewinder', already! The bad guy must be the _other_ asshole with the gun back there, huh? Can you fly, you lop-eared, son of a spavined jackass? I'll be lucky if you can walk. I can't! See? My leg is made of butter, and it's about to melt down!" He was raving and he knew it, but he was unable to stop.

"The _real _Hi-Yo-Sidewinder was white … like a cloud. Sort of 'not-you', huh?

"Me? I'm just white and dirty. Mostly dirty. So if I'm the new Lone Ranger, then you _must_ be Sidewinder, huh? Hmmm … I wonder if your ass is made of 'Fine Corinthian Leather' … does your hide adorn the seats of any old rusty Chrysler Cordobas? Have you ever met Ricardo Montalban? No? Ah, never mind. We're not on 'Fantasy Island' anymore, Tattoo!"

Gregg House's voice trailed off midway into the rant. He felt a cold chill of dementia.

"Ah yes, heroic steed. You and me … gotta shag ass and go slay the Butch Cavendish Gang! We better get going before ol' Baldy back there smokes your smelly Sidewinder-ass! And mine too!"

Behind him, House felt the curious mustang's muzzle nearing his ear, investigating the stubble on his face. There was a bristly, horsy intensity about the inhalations of his human scent. Was man-sweat like perfume to a horse? House swiped the slobber off his chin with a shrug of his cheek against his shirt collar, and for a moment, lost his precious equilibrium. He fell hard against the stallion's neck where it connected with the sloping shoulder looming right there beside him.

His leg erupted in fire. When had the damned animal come so close? The ears were turned hard forward, the eyes deep liquid pools of curiosity, filling the entire visual field that Gregg could sense, rather than see. He pushed himself away with the flat of his hand, but maintained a touch on the dirty brown hide that fearlessly invaded his space. He wondered if the horse could smell the dried blood from his beating at the hands of the idiots with the guns. Probably. The animal's actions certainly had nothing to do with affection. His bleeding hands burned and hurt like hell after touching the hot, sweated skin.

Strangely, in spite of everything, Gregory House found himself responding to this close proximity to another creature. The stallion did not move away when Gregg's right hand reached up to touch the bony forehead, tangled sore fingers in a thick-with-horsy-smell forelock, then trailed down the frontal bone of the long face and finally came to a stop on the soft velvet muzzle.

"You looking for some high adventure, big ugly horse? You want to gallop across the desert with a crippled old man on your back? Want to help me rescue some people who are damned important to me? And one I can't live without if he dies? Wanna to do that with me, huh, ugly horse? Old Sidewinder? Ya mangy weed eater!"

The mustang pushed his muzzle gently against House's shoulder. Gregg flinched, and wondered if there was some kind of instinctive connection between them. Did this animal somehow know the man was too badly hurt to present a threat? That he was dangerously in peril of losing what little that remained of his strength trying to find a way to do something Mighty-Mouse heroic, which might liberate them all?

House did not know, and was quickly approaching the point of not caring. He wondered also, what might happen if he should now attempt to stand. Would the mustang back away and retreat to the other side of the fence? Or worse yet … find the open gate and gallop off into the desert and the night?

"It was time," as he'd often heard his Dad say, "to fish or cut bait" … "to see where the bear shit in the buckwheat" … "Time to get his thumb out of his ass!" Sore thumb, sore ass … it was all still relative!

House levered himself away from the edge of the watering trough and eased his weight onto his good leg. It was stiff and sore. But it held him. The right side was utterly useless, and hurt like a son of a bitch. He had to drag it behind him because the muscles were crap. He wished it would just go numb.

Don't even think that, stupid! 

The mustang followed him like a puppy starving for affection, nearly overwhelming his precarious balance with its effort to stay close. Gregg did not understand the sudden need for the contact, but he did not question. He thought instead of Wilson.

"Ah God … Wilson …"

This strange animal thing … like Amiga's constant protective watch over him … was just the latest in the series of mysteries he'd encountered in this strange place. Maybe the Ghost of Hokee Pino, or whoever-the-hell he was, really was out here somewhere, bullying everything he touched. If he was one of the things being bullied, he might even have to listen! But the Ghost was supposed to be malevolent … wasn't it? If it was watching, he hoped it would give him a fucking clue as to how he was supposed to get up on the back of a goddamn mustang _this freakin' big_!

When he encountered the hackamore on the fence for the second time, he took it as a good omen. "Hi-Yo-Sidewinder" was still right behind him. It was … _so_ … not right!

He pulled the loose collection of old leather straps off the top rail and brought it around to the horse's head. His leg and hands thundered with pain, and he hissed out a breath with a muffled curse. He slipped the headband on, settled the chinstrap and laid the reins across the high withers. The horse stood looking at him, sniffing his bleeding hands and the ruined shirt cuffs dangling over his wrists. Gregg wished he had an apple from the kitchen … or a carrot. He turned back to lean into the fence, rest for a moment. The horse was right there, still hugging his shoulder.

Did the damned animal know the human could barely move?

One level at a time, House struggled up the fence, pulling with his arms until he could find purchase with the sound leg, drag the other one behind him like a sack of grain. Then he was high enough to twist his body around and land flat on his belly across the broad back. The mustang cringed, but did not move. Just stood like a statue as though awaiting further orders.

"This is _not_ happening!"

But it was.

Somewhere he found the strength to force his left leg across the filthy back and let it slide off the other side where the belly met the shoulder. He grabbed hands full of reins, hands full of thick mane, and he was suddenly upright, just behind the withers. His skin tightened across his surgical scar and damaged thigh, setting his whole leg on fire. He leaned forward until his upper body was aligned with the long neck, but it made no difference. He could not take the pressure off. He groaned. Sobbed. Clenched his hands and his eyes until they were on fire also.

Once again, Gregory House was not sure if he had the guts it would take for the length of time this venture would encompass. But there was no other way. James Wilson's life hung in the balance. The lives of the others, too!

_I can fucking do this!_

Then, suddenly, the decision was taken away from him. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the screaming thunder of a big diesel engine, approaching fast. The dark-skinned hacker and feisty little Rema Marks were on their way back.

"Tinker Bell! Oh God … if they hurt you …"

If House got caught out here, it would mean a quick end to any rescue attempt. This meant he had no choice but to strike out through the worst of the sagebrush, jimson weed and chaparral, the prickly pear, the stinkweed and the cactus. And whatever else was laying in wait out there to bite his sorry ass with nasty teeth.

Scorpions. Gila monsters. Sidewinders …

_Fuck!_

The mustang hunched beneath him, wanting to run, and his leg pain made him cry out. Still cursing mightily between his teeth, Gregg tightened his hands on the reins and the mane and slapped them on either side of the wide neck, telling the eager stallion to get them the hell out of there!

Like a streak of blended colors, the stallion's powerful muscles exploded the two of them out the open gate, picked up speed across the road and catapulted them into the thick stands of desert grass, tumbleweeds and poison-toothed critters that inhabited this harsh land.

On his back, weeping in pain and barely hanging on with both stinging hands buried deep in the thick mane, House leaned crookedly into Sidewinder's stretched-out body and gave the horse his head. His own body fought unconsciousness, overwhelmed with agony, knowing if he passed out, it would be all over. Probably for all of them! Wilson would be dead, and God only knew what would happen to the others.

In the effort to stay conscious, House began a chant of his own: a bellow to the name of some old something he'd read about in a book as a kid. "Wakhan Thanka! Send your Spirits to an old, crippled Warrior … Hi-yo Silverware … Daddy's lost his underwear …"

"Aai-i-eee!" 

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	14. Chapter 14

- Chapter 14 –

"Cowboys and Indians"

"What the hell was that?" Tavon twisted in his seat, taking his eyes off the road for an instant to rubberneck out the side window at the blur of movement in the distance, off to the right.

"Watch where you're going!" Rema shouted. The truck swerved sharply and she looked down from her side window in annoyance as he nearly over-steered down the incline into a patch of honey mesquite.

Tavon yanked the wheel quickly in the opposite direction and the big truck slewed back onto the roadway, throwing up a cloud of red dust along its left flank. "Did you see that?" He repeated.

Rema swallowed convulsively, wracking her brain for a plausible answer to the big man's question. She'd seen what it was; knew exactly _who_ it was with incredulous certainty, but no way in hell would she let on to this guy exactly what the apparition had been. "All I saw was a blur," she finally told him. "A bird swooping down … or some kind of animal running off into the weeds … how the hell would I know? I wasn't even looking in that direction. It's too damn dark out there to see much of anything."

A cold shiver of frightened hesitation coursed its way down her spine and she stared straight ahead into the dashboard of the huge truck, afraid to look over at him for fear he might pluck the deception from her eyes. Her fingers wandered to the pocket of her shirt protectively, and to the extra vials of painkiller she harbored there. For Jimmy!

… And for Gray Fox … who wouldn't be needing them, since he was no longer there …

What the hell did he do …??? 

"Yeah … maybe. Scared the shit out of me. Sorry." Tavon settled himself behind the wheel and sped on, not far from the Hogan now.

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At the edge of the desert, the big paint stallion was eating up the miles beneath his hooves. He was a tall animal and his flat-out motion at full gallop looked more feline than equine. His belly stretched out parallel to the ground with each great effortless stride, and his body seemed to double on itself between strides in the manner of an incredibly gigantic inchworm with legs.

On the horse's back, House crouched as intertwined as possible along the long neck, and buried his face, arms and hands deep in the thick mane. He was far beyond further physical reaction, and his pain had long since flared over the top of the scale. He was not sure, but was beginning to believe it possible that he was also approaching a mental state way beyond further coherent thought.

The big maroon pickup truck passed them in a cloud of red dust as it sped in the opposite direction, somewhere off to the far left, and continued on.

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Tavon pulled up at the Hogan and parked beside the black Hummer, standing there with four flat tires, which made it useless for the purpose they had intended for it. Greene shook his head, enraged.

_That son of a bitch!_

When Kurtz fucked something up, he did it big time. No fooling around with the small shit for him! No doctor, whether tied hand-and-foot or not, would escape in that big Hummer while _he_ was there! Tavon knew this was Randall's work, nobody else's. Kurtz had a big honkin' knife that continually burned a hole in its sheath. The asshole had actually found a way to use it to destroy the most valuable commodity in the shortest amount of time. So much for thinking things through!

Tavon Greene shut off the big engine and reached across to loosen the bonds on Rema's wrists. When he opened his door, Hosteen was standing there with a sleepy expression on his face and a suspicious look toward Rema, climbing out the other side of the truck. "You get the stuff?" He asked sourly.

"Yeah, sure," the big man replied as Rema came around the front of the truck. He turned away from Hosteen and opened the rear door of the pickup. Inside were three plastic bins filled with supplies and equipment, medications and bandages. "Got enough stuff to stock a good-sized clinic. If they can't find out what's wrong with the boss with this stuff, then we're all screwed, glued and tattooed."

Rema Marks looked up at him with a tolerant frown. In her day that remark might have

been called "square". There was something about this big, blustery dude that she almost liked, even though he'd certainly picked the wrong friends and the wrong means of earning a living. She wondered if her stray thoughts might be harboring a moment of

"Stockholm Syndrome", a phenomenon by which a captive became enamored with

his/her captors. But no, this wasn't it. Tavon was just part of the ruminations of

an old broad who was seeing a promising kid going down the wrong road! She'd seen this kind of thing before in her travels; would probably see it again.

"If you boys want to get this stuff inside, we can get to work and find out what's wrong with your 'boss' as you call him. If not, at least let me go in there and see what I can do for the doctor you shot, and for the one you hurt so badly he can't move. Your choice!"

Tavon grabbed the first bin and passed it along to Hosteen, who accepted it reluctantly, but turned toward the hole in the wall and moved off.

The next sound they heard was the crash of the plastic bin onto the dirt just outside the hut, and a muffled curse from the tall Hopi. "Oh … son of a bitch!"

Tavon grabbed Rema's wrist and they hurried over to where Tull stood staring across at the empty paddock with the gate hanging wide open. "One of the fuckers in there got away!" He did not mention that even though he was supposed to be on guard, whoever it was had sneaked right past him, led the horse out of the immediate vicinity and taken off on it, and he had never known.

Pulling Rema behind them, both men hurried into the Chindi House and stopped cold at the opening in the wall. Before them the tethered captives were right where they'd been when they left, still trussed with ropes, apparently sleeping, except for the young doctor who had been shot, and who stirred restlessly in obvious delirium. Suarez remained deathly still on the cot, and Jeffries, Lansa and Kurtz were slumped about the Hogan sleeping soundly.

The crippled doctor, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"FUCK!"

An air of intrigue pervaded the place. This scenario was not natural. These men should have awakened when the big diesel pulled up outside, or at least when the truck doors had slammed and their conversation took place. No one had expected them to come out with open-armed greetings, but they should at least have been awake and expecting them when they'd entered the Hogan.

Then they'd all realized at the same moment: the crippled doctor with the reinjured leg was gone. Drag marks on the floor were evident, even with the fire in the firepit gone out, and led directly to the hole in the wall where they'd just entered. Tavon and Hosteen both knew they would find drag marks outside also, where the injured man had pulled himself across the ground and across to the paddock, somehow mounting a half-wild stallion and getting lost in the desert. Hosteen's large dark eyes were like saucers over this escape. He was up "shit creek" big time!

Tavon came to the realization also, that the ghostly image he thought he'd seen a few miles back had been the courageous doctor, flattened across the back of the horse, galloping like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction. Probably heading back toward the hospital in search of help! He turned angry eyes on little Rema. She'd known who it was, but she'd played dumb and convinced him that it had been nothing more than some wild animal. Most natural thing in the world … an animal in the desert.

_Damn her!_

In the moments it took Tavon to think these thoughts, he sighed in admiration for the man who had fooled them all: the man they'd believed was injured too badly to be a threat. But he _was_ hurt! Doctor Gregory House. He was injured so badly that in no way should he have been able to drag himself away from there, subdue a wild horse, then actually get up on its back and ride any distance at all. If there were rewards in this world for sheer stubborn determination, then the good doctor would have won them hands down. Tavon shook his head. Incredible!

"Hey Assholes!" He shouted.

Kurtz, Jeffries and Lansa scrambled awake and onto their feet, Kurtz and Jeffries pulling their guns in an almost laughable effort to appear alert. It failed miserably.

"Wha … ?" It was a classic cartoon comeback.

Hosteen and Tavon might have been amused if the situation hadn't brooked such grave consequences for them. "You fucked up _again!_" Tavon thundered. "You let the crippled guy get away! He took the goddamned horse, and if you don't find him, we're double screwed!"

He looked around at the prisoners and noticed, too late, that Rema was not checking the status of Jose as she was supposed to be doing, but kneeling beside the hunched body of wounded James Wilson, injecting him with something from a vial which she had kept hidden somewhere on her person all the way from the hospital. It was no use screaming at her now. It was too late. It was too late for a lot of things. He could see the ghost of a smile flit across her small face as she chanced a look in his direction.

She had known the injured, crippled doctor would not be here when they got back, and she was also telling Tavon and anyone else who cared to look, that she was determined to give House every chance of success.

Tavon glared at Rema with an expression somewhere between disgust and a sneaking admiration. He saw a fleeting moment of fear cross her features as he looked at her, but then it was gone and her dark eyes sparkled with new intensity. Somehow he was not surprised. He hesitated.

Tavon felt at cross purposes, experiencing a cold weight like frozen lead in his stomach, and the dead certainty that all their elaborate plans, all their grandiose dreams were gone at that moment like a puff of pale chimney smoke in the approaching dawn. He turned to Lansa and Kurtz and Jeffries and made a decision.

It would not bode well for Dr. House, but the decision must be made unless they chose to spend the remainder of their lives in prison. When … not "if" … they were caught, it would be on a charge of murder. "If" the handsome young doctor on the floor died also, it would be three counts of murder and conspiracy to commit murder. He had a family he wanted to go back to. He had no choice.

Tavon turned to Lansa. "Take the truck. Take Jeffries and Kurtz with you and make sure Dr. House doesn't make it back to the hospital. I don't care how you do it, but do it! If you don't, we're up shit creek, but I guess you already know that. I'll stay here and Tull and I will make sure nobody gets any silly ideas. Leave one of the guns here in case I need it. We've got four doctors sitting on their asses. One of them ought to be able to see to the boss. Get going!" He turned away and the three men made tracks out the hole in the wall.

The pickup's engine started noisily, sounding like a handful of marbles rolling around in an iron bathtub. Tavon felt sick, but what else could he have done? His eyes skimmed the table that stood across from the cot. One of Kurtz's big pistols lay like a shiny metal persuader in the middle. He picked it up, shoved it deeply behind his beltline.

Hosteen Tull walked over the opening in the wall and leaned there smoking a cigarette. Tavon walked back over to Rema who sat hunched between Nikki and James, caressing the doctor's painfully furrowed brow. Wilson breathed a little easier now, pumped full of painkillers. Tavon touched the small woman's shoulder and when she turned to look up at him, tears were running down her cheeks and the expression she turned upon him was murderous.

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Lansa pushed the accelerator to the floor, and the Ford F-250 leapt ahead like an F-5 tornado. He did not care about damage to the vehicle. Just like the rental cars at the hospital, it was not his and if it died of his mistreatment, it was no skin off his Navajo ass.

His only concern was catching up with the goddamn sneaking gimp and the goddamn painted horse and turning both of them into a gourmet meal for all the goddamn mangy coyotes and buzzards in the goddamn county! His fingers tightened around the steering wheel like the teeth of a vise, and he leaned forward across it to peer out the dust-clogged windshield, looking for any sign up ahead of the miniature dust clouds stirred around from the hooves of a galloping horse.

They were barely fifteen minutes out from the Chindi House, and Tavon had said the gimpy doctor had at least an hour's head start. Lansa was not certain how far a horse could get at full gallop through the desert, even a stallion as obviously young and healthy as this one seemed to be, but the dry, desert miles would take their toll. If the animal hadn't started to slow down by now, it would begin to do so very soon.

Another thing to take into consideration was the stamina and endurance of the rider. Mark had witnessed the physical distress of the crippled man who had moved along the hallway of the hospital yesterday morning, certainly in pain and walking carefully with concentrated effort. He had listened to the doctor's screams when he was manhandled in the kitchen, and again when he'd been beaten and roughed about in the Chindi House. Someone with severe injuries such as these, on top of a long-time disability could not possibly last long on the constantly shifting back of a galloping horse.

Lansa slowed the truck's speed and directed Jeffries and Kurtz to be especially watchful out the side windows for anything that might indicate they were approaching their quarry. They were surely getting close by now. They were still eight or ten miles from the hospital, but the sooner they caught up with House and put him completely out of action, the better it would be for all of them.

They drove on, craning their necks to see along the lay of the land, but the miles fell behind them with no results, other than a coyote or two melting into the underbrush, or a jackrabbit leapfrogging along like a miniature kangaroo. The miles to the hospital began to narrow dangerously and the men were getting jittery. They were no more than five miles out now, and still nothing to break the monotony of the landscape.

Then Jeffries spotted them, off to the left. The horse was not running. Rather, he was barely plodding along, reins of the hackamore loose, one of them dragging on the ground.

His head was down and even from this distance they could see his sides heaving. He had given all he had and looked ready to drop.

On his back, the man was no better. His head was down also, listing to the right of the stallion's neck, clinging to his seat only by one arm whose bent elbow clamped for dear life across the animal's neck just above the withers. His clothing was in tatters, his skin choked with dirt and dust. His hands, arms and legs, and those of his mount, were dark with blood from mesquite, sword grasses, prickly pears and cactus. They were ready to collapse. It wouldn't take much to bring them both down.

In the back seat, Kurtz picked up his Winchester lever-action 30-30 as the truck slowed to a crawl. Scrolling down the window, he shouldered the rifle and took careful aim. The old gun had no scope, but he prided himself mightily as a marksman. The rifle bucked, once, twice, and the shells ejected onto the floor of the truck.

The painted horse stiffened, took two more steps, then staggered to the right and went down on his knees. The rider's right shoulder erupted in a geyser of blood, and his body slipped off as though he had let go gracefully and with purpose, and slid down over the right flank, his left arm rising into the air like that of a ballet dancer at the top of its arc.

House melted into the ground in slow motion and lay still. The horse's head was down, but his back legs held him up for a moment longer. Kurtz raised the rifle again to finish the job. Then the painted rump went over in the opposite direction and the mustang stallion lay still on the desert floor also.

The wind picked up for a moment and blew a dance of dust devils around the silent forms. Off to the east, the first rays of morning sun lifted off the horizon and painted the land with a palette of yellows, silvers and pinks.

"Want to go check 'em?" Lansa asked casually.

Kurtz grinned. "Nah. Let the buzzards an' coyotes check 'em. We gotta get back, pick up the boss and get the hell out of here, or we're gonna end up behind bars!"

"Yeah, guess you're right." Lansa swung the truck around and stepped on the throttle. The fuel gauge read a quarter of a tank. Where the hell were they to find diesel fuel way out here??

It was Tuesday.

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Sonny's feet were still tied, but Greene had loosed the bonds on his hands so he could attend to Suarez. Alan Tam stood helplessly beside the big Navajo with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, a BP cuff in one hand and the paddles for a portable heart stimulator in the other. The battery was dead. Had been dead for a long time. They couldn't use it. Lack of funds! They did not have the tools necessary to hook it to the battery of the truck or the Hummer.

Sonny straightened. Their job was over before it started and Jose Suarez was quite dead. Cerebral hemorrhage, Sonny believed. Both pupils were blown. His body was ice cold when they'd been allowed, finally, to examine it. Whatever was going on here, it was now finished. The only thing these men had accomplished was the successful murder of the man purported to be their leader, and a tragedy, which wouldn't have had to happen, had they brought him directly to the hospital when they'd first arrived in this unforgiving land. Stupidity and greed had done nothing but earn them prison time.

When Sonny looked up and stared into the dark face of Tavon, they both knew no words were necessary. Tavon took the pistol out of his belt and placed it back on the table. He then went to Nikki and loosened her bonds. He went to Elan and did the same thing.

He finished by untying Susan Carr, who would not meet his eyes, but remained where she was on the floor. Her spirit, he believed, had been completely broken. She would probably need some psychotherapy when she finally walked away from this experience. Her boss had wanted her to come here and learn something. And she had.

When Tavon looked up from releasing Susan, Elan was gone, and so was Hosteen. Elan would go back to his horses, and Tull? Tull could see the writing on the wall. Nothing good was going to come out of this venture, and he had sneaked out on them to save his own ass. So be it!

Nikki and Rema were working with silent concentration over the wound in Wilson's belly, and wondering how in hell they could get him out of there in time to save his life.

Tavon sat down at the table, buried his head in his hands and gave up quietly. No one paid any attention to him at all.

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	15. Chapter 15

- Chapter 15 –

"Amiga and the NTP"

"Jerry, this is Nola VanDrokian over at Rez Hospital. Can you hear me okay?"

"Yeah, Nola," replied the voice at the other end of the line. "I can hear you fine. What's up? How's Sonny's medical conference going?"

"That's a problem, Jerry," Nola told him, her voice taking on a worried edge. "There is no medical conference! Nobody has seen Sonny or Nikki or Rema or any of their discussion group since yesterday morning when we split up into groups for workshops. At lunchtime, some of us thought at first that since they were working on ideas for fund raising, he might have taken his group out around the hospital's perimeter to show them some of the things that need worked on. When they still didn't show up by dinnertime, we started to get worried. Some of our guests got into their cars and drove around a couple of miles outside the fence looking for them. The Hummer is gone, and we thought he might have had car trouble, although the damned thing isn't that old … and two nights ago it was fine.

"Some of us sat up half the night last night talking about it, and it turned into a huge argument. We wasted a lot of time getting to you, I'm afraid. Then just awhile ago Oscar was sweeping the kitchen and found a broken coffee cup and a puddle of spilled coffee under one of the prep counters. And then he found the doctor's cane … and there's blood smeared on the floor by one of the refrigerators."

Jerry Chatto interrupted her at this point. "Nola … whoa, whoa, whoa … slow down a second! Doctor's cane? Blood on the floor? What doctor's cane? Whose blood? Are you sure that's what it is? Help me out here!"

Nola sighed, knowing she was getting ahead of herself, but she was worried, and afraid they had waited too long to notify authorities. Everyone was becoming more and more certain with each passing minute that Sonny and his group had run into some kind of trouble. "There are two prominent doctors here from a teaching hospital in New Jersey. They're both in Sonny's group, and one of them has severe nerve damage to his leg. He walks with a cane. Anyhow, Oscar found the cane under one of the prep counters. Dr. House can't walk very far without it, and … well … you know. Maybe he fell and hurt himself. We're definitely sure it's blood. Could you and a couple of the guys come out here and check around? We have almost a hundred guests milling around … and they're getting really nervous."

There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. Jerry Chatto was having a tense conversation with one of his men in the background. The Navajo Tribal Police was a tight-knit organization, responsible for protecting those who lived and worked on the reservation, and they always took charge immediately when they were presented with a problem. After few moments the man's voice resumed. "When did you say you saw them last?"

"Yesterday morning," Nola told him, " after breakfast. The rest of us broke off into groups, but Sonny was still waiting for Dr. House to join them."

"And this Dr. House … this is the crippled guy?"

Nola smiled into the phone. "Yep. 'The crippled guy' … but if I were you, I wouldn't call him that. He doesn't like it, and he's quite a character. I've heard him speak twice, and I wouldn't want to get in his way. He's already got most of us eating out of his hand though. I'll do what I can to keep these people pacified, but they're pretty upset, and I'm really worried about Sonny and the women …"

She heard Jerry's voice talking in the background again, and then he returned to the receiver. "Sammy Hawk and Charlie Begay and I are on our way. We should be there in half an hour. Okay?"

"Oh Jeez, Jerry … thank you sooo much. We'll be waiting. Oh yeah, and one more thing: Amiga … Sonny's Burmese … is going nuts. I had to pen her up. Hurry!"

"Understood." The line went dead.

Nola hung up the phone, turned out the light and left Sonny Tse's office. Now she had to return to the kitchen and try to calm a crowd of angry, worried and frightened people, all talking at once.

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The men from NTP left their office in Tuba City within ten minutes of the end of the phone call. All three wore sidearms, walkie-talkies, and desert-tan uniforms trimmed in brown with their department logo on the right sleeves. All three wore brown baseball caps and knee-high desert boots. No telling what one might walk into out there.

The Department owned and drove two Jeep Grand Cherokee SUVs with sirens and a light bar across their tops, and their Departmental initials printed on the doors, which nobody further out than twenty miles, including children and Shimasanas and Chi-Chehs, had any idea what they stood for.

The department cops took no end of ribbing from their friends in the Arizona Highway Patrol and everyone who lived on the Reservation. "You boys need to get yourselves an old Chevy Tahoe and buy some extra letters and make it a Chevy 'Nava-Tahoe'! Ha ha ha!" And that little gem was only the _kindest_ joke! The others were not spoken, as a rule, in polite company.

Sammy was behind the wheel. Jerry rode shotgun next to him, and Charlie who always wore an eagle feather tangled in his long black hair, occupied the back seat. The conversation centered on the sudden disappearance of Dr. Tse and part of his staff, as well as the two physicians from Jersey.

To these boys, New Jersey might as well have been another country. When the topic of that part of the east coast came up, it was inevitably thought of as a vast waste dump: empty beer bottles, discarded plastic containers, used condoms and dirty tampons floating in the rivers and in the Atlantic Ocean. None of them had ever been too far east of the Continental Divide, and none of them had any desire to go see if the rumors were true.

"It's not like Sonny to just up and disappear like that," Jerry was saying, mostly to himself. "But for other doctors who are strangers to this neck of the woods to do a disappearing act with him, and not be heard from for twenty-four hours, stinks to high heaven as far as I'm concerned. And you don't drag a handicapped man out onto the desert without his cane! In fact, I wouldn't drag him out there for _any_ reason! Cane or no cane. It just doesn't make sense."

"You think something … I dunno … _bad_ … happened to them?" Sammy chimed in. "You don't drag a bunch of women out on the desert either, unless you're getting dragged out there with 'em!"

"Whoa!" Charlie said huffily. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking? That they got hog-tied by somebody?"

"Yeah … that thought did cross my mind," Jerry agreed. "None of this adds up. When we get out to Rez, we're going to go over every inch of that place and find out what the hell happened. A Hummer is a pretty big vehicle to try to hide, and Sonny's is all decked out to transport hospital supplies. He totes all kinds of stuff in that thing … from first aid supplies to horse feed. Anybody trying to steal it would have to be pretty stupid. It'd be too damned easy to spot."

"That's all well and good, Jer, but do you realize what you're saying?" Charlie grumbled. "In order to completely check out that old hospital building, we'd need a FEMA team, ATF, FBI, CIA and Bevis and Butthead to go check out all the damn nooks and crannies … plus a forensics team and somebody from the K-9 Corps …"

"Still, we've got to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. And speaking of the K-9 Corps, that reminds me … Nola said Amiga went nuts and she had to lock her up. That big mutt might come in damned handy."

"Yeah, you're right," Sam agreed. "Turn Amiga loose and see where she takes us. Maybe we can call in those other fancy dudes next week!"

"Next week, my ass!" Jerry groused. "This problem is going to be solved today! No other choice. We have six or seven people 'gone with the wind' here. Or maybe they're sitting out on the desert with a flat tire or engine problems. Those HumVees aren't foolproof, you know!"

"For as much as the damn things cost, they ought'a fly!" Sam remarked sarcastically.

They were approaching the hospital's outer boundaries fast.

"Okay, we're here, let's see what turns up!" The Cherokee zipped through the perimeter fence and pulled up close to the rear ambulance entrance. Sammy shut down the engine and the three of them watched with open mouths as a large crowd of people pushed their way out through the tall back doors.

"Oh my God! Looks like tryouts for American Idol … "

Jerry chuckled. "I was thinking the same thing, Sam … let's go see what they have to say. Plenty, I'll bet!"

The huge wave of people came at them in droves, crowding around the Cherokee two and three deep. The three officers had a little trouble getting the doors of the car open far enough to get out. Dozens of questions flew at them at once, as they had known they would. Some of the physicians were apprehensive, some rather put out at the inconvenience, some worried for their colleagues, but all were more than ready and willing to do whatever they could to help solve the puzzle.

Jerry Chatto held up his hands for quiet, and gradually the clamorous buzz died down. "We're here to try to help solve this mystery you seem to be encountering. What I want to know first of all, is which of you saw Sonny and the rest of them … which ones you saw … and what time. That will give us a place to start. One of you talk at a time, please. Nola tells me that Sonny and part of his group were still in the dining room when everyone started to split up for workshops. Which of you saw any of his group members, and about what time?"

Hands shot up from within the crowd, and Jerry began to point to those who raised them.

"I saw Sonny when he first came down yesterday morning about 6:00. My name is Samantha Beckett, and this is my husband, Alan. We're veterinarians from Ithaca, New York. We were on breakfast duty and we got up early. Rema and Nikki came in about 6:30, and by 7:00 almost everyone was there for breakfast. I remember Dr. Wilson came down about 7:30 … 7:45. I think he'd been upstairs helping Dr. House. Awhile after that, we were starting to break up into workshop groups."

"Thanks, Dr. Beckett. That helps us. Did anyone see Dr. House come downstairs?" Jerry asked.

"Yeah … I did!" The answer came from the back of the crowd, and a stocky man with thinning hair made his way slowly to the front with a long series of "pardon mes", until he was nearly in front of the three NTP officers. "I'm Mel Fierstine. My group was meeting on the far side of the waiting room, over near the corner where the piano is … I had gotten up to go after another cup of coffee … and I'm pretty sure it was close to 9:00 a.m. So I poured the coffee and started back to the group.

"Then I heard the elevator start up. I looked back to see who it was, and when it opened, Dr. House was getting out. He'd been on crutches the day before, but yesterday morning he was back on the cane. He shouldn't have been, but he's a stubborn bastard. He was toughing it out, trying to work through the pain, but his leg wasn't cooperating very well. I felt sorry for him, but he hates it when you do that, so I figured: 'it's your funeral, buddy!' He headed toward the kitchen, and I went back to my group … if that helps you any."

"It does," Jerry assured him.

A voice from the middle of the crowd called out. "I can vouch for that, Officer. I heard the elevator come down at 8:55. I looked at my watch, so I know what time it was. I'm Kim Sung, orthopedics, St. Louis."

"Thanks, Dr. Sung. Okay, we've established that Sonny's group was together by 9:00 a.m. with the arrival of Dr. House. Dr. Fierstein tells us that Dr. House was still in possession of his cane when he came downstairs. So, he either lost it or it was taken from him sometime between breakfast yesterday and early today when it was found in the kitchen … along with the spilled coffee and the broken cup and the blood. Did anyone at all hear anything that sounded as though a coffee cup had been dropped or thrown?"

There was silence. Then: "Thrown?" Two voices asked the question at once.

Jerry looked first at Sam, then over to Charlie. He knew they were both thinking the same thing he was. "Yeah," he said. "Thrown … as in somebody might have thrown it at somebody else. As in … Dr. House may have thrown it at somebody as a weapon. Since there was spilled coffee on the floor, that means whoever it belonged to had already begun to fill it at one of the urns. We're told that it was black coffee, and Dr. House drinks his coffee black. We believe somebody surprised him and he threw the cup of coffee at that person. Then that person immobilized him by taking his cane away and throwing it on the floor. So it's entirely possible that Dr. House and Dr. Tse and everyone in the group may have been abducted … for some reason we have yet to figure out. We need to go in and check out the blood smear."

There was a jumble of noisy reactions as the group shifted their thoughts to this new possibility. "So then what?" Came a voice louder than anyone else's.

"So then we take ourselves around this place and search for any indications of breaking and entering. Remember, this is only one theory at the moment, and it could be wrong. But we need to check it out. I need Nola, Oscar and Chaz … one of you who knows the layout of this place, to go along with each one of us to check every entrance, every means of access to this building. If we don't find anything, then we'll think of something else. But if we do … well, then we'll have a place to start."

Jerry scanned the vast sea of concerned faces around him. "So let's all go back inside. I'd appreciate it if the rest of you would please wait in the dining room while we and the staff people go check out the kitchen and all the entrances. We'll get back to you as soon as we can, and then figure out how and where to go from there."

There were nods of agreement and a buzz of discussion, and like a swarm of bees, they all changed direction at once and headed back through the narrow doorway.

In the dining room, Amiga, the big Burmese Mountain Dog, was whining and spinning in circles, running to the door where an avalanche of people surged through it to get inside. Nola took hold of her collar to keep her away from charging past anyone, but the dog wouldn't be calmed. She twisted and fought Nola's grip until the woman finally let her go, exasperated. "Whatever is wrong with you, girl?"

"Come, Amiga!" The words were full of authority, and the man speaking them had gone to his knees in order to be on the same level. Amiga paused and looked at him. Her ears cocked at full attention for a moment, but he was not familiar, and she began to whine and run in circles again. When the last person had filed through the door, she made a move toward it, trying to get out, but the door closed and cooped her inside. The man who knelt on the floor called again. "Amiga, come!" This time her training took over and she obeyed, though reluctantly, to the voice of reason.

Alan Beckett reached up to touch the dog's worried face and felt the trembling of her body. She obviously sensed something the rest of them didn't. "What's wrong, girl? What's going on? Do you hear something? Feel something?" Beneath his hands, Amiga fidgeted, pranced, whirled around and finally barked once, twice, full voice. She successfully silenced the room for a moment.

Just as Alan Beckett stood up again, Sammy Hawk and Oscar re-entered the dining room from the side doors to the kitchen, followed closely by Jerry Chatto. "Found something," Hawk announced. He spoke into the collar microphone at his right shoulder and called the other two teams back to the room where everyone else was gathered. Thirty seconds later the others showed up, striding back through the last two entrances, eager to see what, if anything, had been discovered.

"That's definitely blood in the kitchen," Jerry announced, turning to Sammy and Oscar. "What is it you've found?" The room went from animated buzz to funeral parlor silence in the wink of an eye, except for Amiga, who continued to fidget beneath the calming hand of Alan Beckett and his wife Samantha.

"One of the side doors has been jimmied," Hawk told them. "Oscar says it's an entrance nobody here ever uses because there's nothing but junk stored back there. It was sealed after the barbed wire factory closed down. But someone must have been familiar enough with the place to know that the door isn't in the best of shape, and the lock is all rusted to hell.

"Anyhow, someone broke the lock and wiggled the face plate loose. It didn't take much. A five-year-old could have done it if he'd known where to look. We found footprints and a set of tire tracks … big vehicle, but not the Hummer. Wrong tire pattern! I think they got the drop on Sonny, or they threatened to hurt Dr. House. Either way, it had to be something like that, or Sonny would have taken them out with one hand tied behind his back … especially if somebody threatened Nikki or Rema!"

"What the hell would they want with our doctors?" Someone shouted.

"Somebody probably got hurt!" Jerry shouted back.

"But who?"

"One of their own!" Jerry's voice was angry. "They're probably out on the desert somewhere right now with our people! I think they came back for one doctor, found out this place was hosting a medical conference. So they cased the place, found a way in, and had to take a whole group because your Dr. House somehow made it impossible to separate just one."

"So how did he do that? If they surprised Dr. House in the kitchen," the voice continued, "why didn't they just take him? He certainly couldn't have given them much trouble. We've all seen him move, and he doesn't have an easy time of it." The questions were coming at him fast and furious, and every one of them tested Jerry's ability to think on his feet and kept his mind coming up with logical reasons for each trace of evidence that presented itself in turn.

"Don't forget, folks, we believe House probably threw his coffee cup at someone, and most likely yelled his head off. People in Sonny's group were here in the dining room and heard him, and they charged out there to see what all the fuss was about.

Those people probably had guns … and after that it was all over but the shoutin'!"

"Oh … right. So … now what?"

"So now I get on the horn and call the Flagstaff Police Department. It's time to bring in the big guns. Whoever is holding these doctors is probably a nasty bunch with a lot to lose, and they're almost certain to be dangerous. We're looking for a big vehicle: big SUV or pickup truck … something with room for a lot of people.

"And we're probably going to have to scour the desert in a twenty-five-to-thirty-mile radius. The NTP doesn't have the resources for that. It would take us forever to do it by ground vehicle. Flagstaff has an S&R helicopter, and I'm sure they'd co-operate."

"What is S and R?"

"Search and Rescue."

"Oh."

"There's a phone in Sonny's office," Nola offered. "You know where it is. Help yourself. Dial nine for an outside line."

"Thanks, Nola." Chatto turned on his heel and walked through the double doors into the kitchen.

They waited. Amiga continued with her prancing and whining, still nervous and antsy.

"You know," Samantha Becket finally said, "we need to let this dog go and then get into a couple of cars and follow her. Nola says she's been acting like this all morning. My husband has a way with dogs like I've never seen, but even he has been unable to calm her down. It should be worth a try, shouldn't it?" Her eyes drifted to the dark ones of Charlie Begay, and they stood for a moment at impasse.

Finally, Charlie shrugged and looked down. "I agree with you, Dr. Beckett. I surely do. But we need to take this one thing at a time. When Jerry comes back, we can ask him and see what he says."

Jerry reentered the room a minute or two later with a thoughtful look on his face. Heads turned to him in anticipation. "They're in the air as we speak," he said, and cheers went up around the room.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa! Hold on now! We have to wait for them. They expect to make a sweep of about a thirty-mile surface area. There was an armed robbery Friday at the Soon Chang Corporation in Flagstaff. There were six men who broke in there and stole a multi-million dollar computer-slave program. They had false IDs and the guards passed them through. When they left, something triggered the company's silent alarm and a pair of automated gun turrets took out the van they arrived in … and blew one of their people ass-over-tincup across the concrete when it went up. One of the gang shot two security guards between the eyes at point-blank range … so it's murder. Two counts!

"They got away on foot because there was some hesitation inside over the dead guards. The perimeter cameras were turned on, so there will be a video with overhead shots of all of them.

"The Flagstaff cops think they're looking for a Ford F-250 pickup truck. Maroon. One was stolen from a family just a little north of town. So it looks like they headed this way. They may have been looking for a doctor to treat the man who got his butt blown out of the van … at least that's my guess."

"That's great, Jer. I sure hope these people are all right … but there's something else maybe we need to do in the meantime." The speaker was Charlie Begay.

Jerry turned his full attention to his deputy. Charlie wasn't one for wild speculation, and Jerry had learned to pay attention when he spoke. "What is it?"

"This dog. Amiga. Everyone says she's been going nuts all morning … jumping around and acting all crazy. What do you say we turn her loose and follow her to see if she leads us somewhere. She is a cancer dog after all, and maybe she knows something … or senses something …that we don't."

Jerry nodded. "Okay then. Sound reasoning. I can't go. I have to stay here and wait to see if the chopper shows up, or finds something in the desert. You two guys take the Cherokee and follow her. Maybe there are some volunteers who will go along with you and help check it out …"

Hands went up all over the room.

"Me!"

"Me!"

"Me!"

Jerry smiled. They all did. Every hand in the dining room was raised.

"We need people who are driving SUVs or vans or pickup trucks, so that narrows the field. And we need, at the most, two other vehicles."

The choices narrowed. Charlie pointed to the Becketts. "This man has a way with the dog," he said. "They are definitely going along. I need two more doctors … people who have worked trauma … just in case there is really something … or someone … hurt out there. And we need to load medical supplies and painkillers and bandages … also 'just in case'."

Nola, Oscar and Chaz were already out of their seats, heading for the medical storerooms. "We'll get everything!" Nola shouted over her shoulder as the three of them disappeared into the hallway.

Ten minutes later they were ready. The Cherokee, a Dodge Dakota and a long-wheelbase Chevy van were parked outside the ambulance entrance. Charlie and Sam drove the department's Cherokee, the Becketts took the Dodge, and two trauma surgeons by the names of Jo McCann and Nick Bitters were in the front of the van.

Nola stood by the back door holding Amiga's collar. The Burmese was so excited she was choking herself in the effort to get away. Nola let go the collar. "Seek, Amiga! Seek!"

A whirling mass of black fur exploded out the back door, down the ramp and across the compound. Racing for all she was worth, the Burmese catapulted past the barn, through the perimeter gate and out onto the desert.

The vehicles behind her fell into line, fanning out, one by one in her wake, and Amiga ran flat out for four-point-three miles on the odometer. Then she went off the side of the road to the right.

Something was, indeed, there. Among the mesquite, beyond a tall Saguaro, a large lump on the desert floor …

The vehicles went off the road, down a small incline and across the red, dust-strewn surface. "Jesus Christ!" Sammy Hawk exclaimed.

"Yeah!" Sammy agreed. "It's a dead horse!"

Behind him, Charlie choked up when he spoke. "The dog is sniffing at something. Is … that a man?"

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	16. Chapter 16

- Chapter 16 –

"Gunshots and Red Dust"

Mark Lansa jabbed down hard on the accelerator as he swung the big truck around, away from the two dead bodies, to head back to the Chindi House. He kept an eye on the fuel gauge as he did so, wondering how in hell they had any chance at all of making it to Tuba City and the nearest diesel pump before the thing ran dry in the middle of the desert.

For the hundredth time he cursed the idiot, Randall Kurtz, for putting his goddamned hunting knife through all four tires of the big HumVee. To Lansa's way of thinking, "no-brain" Kurtz had fucked them on two counts, and that was only today! First, by knifing the tires and making the Hummer useless. Second, since the Hummer was a gasoline model and not a diesel, they couldn't even siphon the contents of its tank into the truck. Angrily, he wondered how many more times the stupid Texan would fuck them up until this was all over with.

In the back seat, Jeffries and Kurtz were strangely silent. There was no bragging, no haggling, and no arguing. Neither gave a moment's thought to the crippled man they had left behind in the desert, dead or dying. To them it was just part of the job, nothing more. They were content in the knowledge that the fool had been stopped cold in his attempt to bring help from the hospital.

Instead, both men were thinking fantasy thoughts of what they might do with their share of the rich bounty they would receive at the end of this job. That was assuming the captive physicians back at the stinking desert Hogan had diagnosed the boss's medical problem and pumped him full of something that would wake him the-hell up. They needed be on their way to wherever-it-was so Suarez could meet whoever waited for the stolen computer program. Blah-blah-blah … Whatever …

And if they couldn't wake him up? If Suarez had turned into some kind of weird vegetable, which both Kurtz and Jeffries knew was a possibility, what-the-hell then? Strangely, their thoughts began to run on a parallel with Lansa's:

Screwed!

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High in the sky overhead, a blue and silver Bell 429 police helicopter circled in stealth mode, keeping to the updrafts just below a formation of low-lying cumulus clouds. The bird's paint job was anything but coincidence. With the sun behind an accumulating formation such as those it rode within at this moment, the outer skin blended with its natural background and became next to invisible from the ground.

Roger Nasmith and Jamie Courtney were strapped into the catbird seats on either side of the center console with their eyes peeled on the desert floor. From up here its flora and fauna looked like a discarded pile of worn Lego blocks left behind by a child, and scattered over a rust-colored carpet. They were looking for a "big vehicle" somewhere within a twenty-five to thirty-mile radius of Sonny Tse's "Rez Hospital". Whoever was riding in this vehicle allegedly possessed information on the whereabouts of Sonny and seven of his constituents who had inexplicably turned up missing from what was supposed to be a weeklong medical conference at his institution.

Everyone for miles around knew Dr. Sonny Tse and his widespread efforts to get a hospital going on the Navajo Reservation. Everyone was familiar with the young cardiac specialist's determination to upgrade a century old barbed wire factory into a place of healing. They knew he'd strong-armed his own people in a gentle medicine-man way until they'd rolled up their collective sleeves and helped him clean up and shore up the building and put its broken parts back together into some semblance of permanence. The old factory had slowly undergone an amazing transformation over a period of many long months, and the word spread.

After a time, Flagstaff, Phoenix, Mesa and other cities of note began paying attention to Dr. Tse's good works, and decided it would be very sound business practice to get on the bandwagon and help the project along.

By the end of 1999, "Rez Hospital" began to rise out of the ashes of neglect, resembling not so much a "Phoenix", but a battle-scarred old buzzard, patches and bandages and braces and many other shoring-up operations obvious.

By some Herculean effort of cajoling and bribery and coaxing and threatening, Sonny procured a rag-tag staff of twenty orderlies, thirteen RNs and fifteen LPNs, three senior-citizen doctors, two of whom came out of retirement, and other staff he could find from the Native American community who were able to do twice the work for half the pay.

On New Years Day 2000, "Rez" opened her creaky doors to admit the first three patients; soon to be five, for a pregnant woman promptly gave birth to twins.

That had been seven years earlier. Reservation Hospital still looked like a barbed wire factory on the outside, but it was a place of hope and support and healing comfort to many reservation families, from its rickety WWII elevator and eye-sore window air conditioners, to its scrubbed wooden floors, crisp white sheets and uncomfortable iron cots.

Before he'd taken the job as heli-driver for the Flagstaff Police Department, Roger Nesmith had lived in Tuba City. His Navajo wife had been the first pregnant woman through Rez's doors, and his twin sons would soon be seven years old.

Jamie Courtney manipulated the joystick in her left hand, and maneuvered the foot pedals delicately with both feet, until the graceful bird nosed over to the right just a few degrees. "There!" She said, pointing to a black dot that seemed to scurry along like a panicked ant on the desert floor far below.

Roger followed the tip of her finger downward and saw the black dot with its contrails of dust, looking like a high-speed powerboat with red waves churning up behind it. "Thar she blows!" He said softly. "They're in a helluva hurry to get somewhere! Let's see where they land and then set down somewhere off to the south."

"Roger!" she replied, half grinning, then reached to her headset to key the police band radio. "FPD-429-02 … CQ Headquarters. This is Courtney. Suspect vehicle sighted. We are flagging on his six, about ten miles out from Reservation Hospital. Heading is north-northwest. Will call back when quarry lands. Do you copy, FPD?"

"Copy, 429-02, Cygott here," came the response. "Standing by for further contact. FPD-Base out."

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Tavon Greene and Sonny Tse stood and stared at one another for long moments before either of them made a move to end the standoff. It was finally Sonny who sighed and bowed his head. He nodded to the body of Jose Suarez. "You waited too long to get him to someone who could help him. He didn't have to die, but by the time we were able to figure out the problem, it was too late. He a good friend of yours?"

Tavon shook his head. "Naw … not really. He was a smart old bastard though … full of crazy off-the-wall ideas and charming enough to con the balls off a buffalo. We liked him okay, but after this job was finished, we would've probably never crossed paths again. So we took a chance and it went south real quick. Nobody but Jose ever knew who the contact was, or where we were supposed to meet him. Shit happens. You don't have any cause to worry about me. I guess I pretty much knew where things were headed when that stupid ass, Jeffries, blew two security guards away. It's a long story …" Greene sat down on one of the benches at the table. "I could never kill anybody, so I guess I'm one of those guys they never should have picked."

Sonny nodded, and then crooked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Well, maybe the old dude wasn't your friend, but the man that idiot cowboy shot in the stomach was one of mine. He's one of the sweetest guys I ever knew, and I've got to see how he's doing."

Tavon nodded. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

Sonny knelt beside Nikki, Rema and James, reaching out a hand to smooth Wilson's hair and lay a hand on his forehead. Nikki had not moved away from him even though her ropes had been removed almost fifteen minutes before. She and Rema had taken the restraints off Wilson's ankles right away also, and he had drawn his knees up closer to his body. The painkillers had allowed him consciousness without too much discomfort, but he was in hematogenic shock and clammy to the touch.

A check of his pulse found it weak and rapid, indicating injury to internal organs. His pain-filled gaze regarded Sonny gently, though he did not yet speak. Nikki looked up with tears in her eyes, and Sonny squeezed her hand with a touch of love and respect born of long friendship. Affectionately he touched the tip of Rema's shiny nose and winked at her also, then turned his attention back to Wilson.

"How are ya doin', Paleface Bro?" Sonny whispered. "I'm so damn sorry I got you and Gregg into this …"

"Shhh … not your fault, though I've often felt better. Tough too … raised on New Jersey river pollution! Carcinogens for breakfast …"

"Jesus, Jimmy!"

"Where's … House?"

Sonny did not have the stomach to tell Wilson about House's ride into the desert, which could have ended only in disaster when Lansa, Jeffries and Kurtz took the big pickup truck and went after him. He compromised with a half-truth, hoping the perceptive Wilson would not pick the deception out of his expression. "Gregg got away, Jimmy. He's probably on his way to bring help as we speak …"

"What? That's impossible. They hurt him so badly … he couldn't move. His leg …"

"Don't underestimate him, Jim. He's more resourceful than any of us had any idea."

Wilson quieted, his breaths coming in shallow pants that wracked his entire body. Sonny touched a shoulder, then stood up and removed his tan jacket. He stooped and placed it across Wilson and Nikki. The air was hot with the coming of the new day, but they were both trembling. Not with cold. With something else entirely!

The sound of a vehicle moving close brought them all to attention. The roar of the diesel engine died as the truck pulled up out front. Doors slammed. Lansa, Kurtz and Jeffries stalked through the hole in the wall all smiles. "We left a couple'a pieces of buzzard bait out there!" Jeffries chortled.

Then he saw Sanchez's body, completely covered with the blanket from the cot and stopped short in mid-sentence. He also saw Sonny standing near Wilson and the two staff doctors, and further across the room, Alan Tam and Susan Carr, none of whom were restrained in any way. "What the fuck is going on here? Where's the horse injun? And where the hell's Hosteen?"

At his side, Lansa tensed and Kurtz and Jeffries already had their guns out.

"Save it!" Tavon told them. The 'horse injun' went back to his horses and Hosteen flew the coop. There's no damn way we're going to win this thing now. The boss is dead, and we'll never know who his contact was. Put your gun away, Kurtz! You too, Erik! You've killed everything you can possibly kill, and what did it get you? What did it get any of us … besides grief and more crap?

"The minute we make a move, they'll have us cold. Do you think they're not looking for us by now? Just because we haven't seen anyone out there, doesn't mean they're not there. Give it up! Personally, I've had enough! And the fuckin' truck is probably about out of fuel by now, right, Mark? We're finished. All we need is for asshole Kurtz to stick his knife into something else … or shoot somebody else. God! They'll hang us from the fuckin' flagpole in front of city hall!"

With a shout of rage, Kurtz spun on his heel, turned his gun on the dredlocked hacker and fired point blank. A spout of blood erupted from Tavon's chest as he clasped himself and went down. The last thing he saw in this life was the crazed gleam of mounting insanity etched on the face of his killer.

From her cowering perch against the back wall, Susan began to scream and Alan turned to her and held her so tightly that the breath was squeezed out of her to the point that her screams were cut off in the middle. She simply sat and wimpered in his arms.

"You dirty mother fuckers!" Kurtz screamed. "I'll kill every one of you fucking sons of bitches!" He whirled again with the gun in his hand, leveling it in turn on everyone in the room still left standing, and Jeffries at his side, turned with him, deftly stepping over the bloody corpse of Tavon on the floor directly in front of them.

As he continued to circle on the balls of his feet to turn and train the gun at those still against the wall, Sonny sidestepped to the table and reached for the Glock left there by Tavon a short time before. In their excitement and anger, neither Jeffries nor Kurtz had seen it, and Mark simply stood by the hole in the wall with a smirk on his face. He couldn't care less who the bastards killed, as long as it didn't inconvenience him.

Kurtz finished the arc around the room, still holding his pistol steady and menacing with both hands. He did not plan on seeing the Navajo physician standing like a statue with a Glock pistol until he heard the sound of the slide being pulled back. Sonny held the weapon at arms' length, and it was pointed directly at Kurtz's head.

"Drop it!" Sonny said in a voice edged with steel as hard as the steel in the gun.

Two things happened at once. Someone pushed a police special into Lansa's ribs from behind, and a second voice snarled: "Flagstaff Police! Drop the gun, Cowpoke!"

Jamie Courtney stood stiff-legged, having gotten the drop on Lansa as he stood in the opening to the Chindi House, and Roger Nesmith with his pistol also cocked and ready, made it two against one confronting Kurtz.

But Kurtz had lost all sense of reason. All he could see was the millions of dollars that had slipped through his fingers, along with the life of luxury it represented. He swung the pistol around to the left with a demented rebel yell and pointed it at Lansa and Courtney, still framed in the hole in the wall.

Three shots rang out. Kurtz's hit the ceiling, dislodging splinters and mud and straw, raining it down like a dry shower. The bullets from the Glock held by Sonny and the police special in the hands of Roger Neismith found their mark at the exact spot where Kurtz's heart used to be. The organ exploded in the man's chest and human detritus rained outward all the way to the wall where Nikki and Rema still hunched over the wounded body of Wilson.

Kurtz's death rattle was heard by everyone in the room. His body dropped like a brick.

Jeffries and Lansa presented no more problems. Subdued, they were relieved of their weapons and their hands quickly handcuffed behind their backs. "You're both under arrest," Neismaith said unnecessarily. "You have the right to remain silent …"

"Shut yer fuckin' mouth, cop!" Jeffries screamed.

Neismith shrugged and discontinued his recital. "Right! You probably know it by heart anyway."

"Sure is a lot of blood to clean up," Alan Tam observed quietly from the far corner.

No one could top that statement.

Neismith and Courtney collected all the information they could from those left in the Hogan. After checking the dead, Sonny and Rema made the pronunciations and they covered the bodies with plastic sheets from the parked helicopter. Sonny was shaking uncontrollably from the aftershock of having to end someone's life. "Doctors aren't supposed to do that!" He kept saying over and over. We was unable to accept the fact, at first, that there was nothing else he could have done. His final words came in the form of an order. "Get Jimmy the hell out of here and get him some help!"

Unemotionally, Jamie Courtney pulled her collar mike up to her mouth. "FPD-429-02 … CQ Headquarters. This is Courtney. Do you read?"

"This is Headquarters, 429-02. Cygott here. Report."

"We are located at a _chindi_ house, eleven-point-seven miles south-southeast of Reservation Hospital. We have two people under arrest for the holdup of Soon Chang Corporation in Flagstaff on Friday, August 26.

"Shots have been fired. We have three dead, one doctor badly wounded, a second doctor missing. The remainder of the hostages are safe." Jamie sighed. "Ah hell, Jack, let's skip the formality and cut to the chase. Roger and I are going to transport the injured doctor directly to the trauma unit at Flagstaff Medical Center. He's been gutshot and is in pretty serious condition. Rez Hospital isn't equipped to handle something like this.

"Also, we have a second doctor who's gone missing, and no one knows where he is. This man is physically handicapped and normally walks with a cane. His friends tell us he rode off on a horse that was tethered here … possibly to ride to the hospital for help.

"Don't ask me, Jack! I only report what we were told. We are leaving immediately with the injured doctor. Please call the hospital and have medics standing by. Our ETA is … approximately forty minutes. We need you to send out Chopper One to search for the other doctor. Oh … and ask the boys to bring a tank of diesel fuel and four tires for Rez Hospital's HumVee. We need to get the prisoners to the clink … and these doctors transported. Soonest. Copy?"

"I copy, Jamie. Will do. Cygott out."

James Wilson was loaded onto a gurney with a pressure bandage strapped to his belly. Rema injected him with the second vial of painkiller and got in beside him. They were on their way.

Rema decided it would probably have turned out to be a lousy day for a medical convention anyway …

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	17. Chapter 17

- Chapter 17 -

"Revelation!"

Somewhere between the hallucinations and the bone-chilling cold, he perceived pain; pain so overpowering that it filled up his thoughts, his hopes and his dreams. The pain sliced through all the convolutions of his cerebral cortex and filtered into his brain stem and down his spinal cord like liquid fire into his soul.

Nothing existed before this static moment, and nothing loomed visible after it. He was riding the edge of the universe and everything around him was in vacuum. He could not feel his body except for the burning sensation that never left him. There was no bottom, no top, and no sides. His physical presence was not a part of him, and he missed it somewhat, but wasn't quite sure if he would know what to do with it if he had it. The worst thing about it was that it didn't matter. He could leave at will, rise into the air and look down at himself and see nothing. Only the emptiness filled him: the loneliness, the hopelessness.

Was this what it was like to be dead? God, he hoped not. "Dead" was not a state of mind, it was a condition, or lack thereof. It was a destination, a falling-off point, and a stepping-back point. When you were dead, your journey was over. And he had miles to go before he slept.

Where had he heard that before? Was that a poem?

There was a buzzing going on around him; bothering him with its persistence, and he batted at it. When he did, the pain exploded and he opened his swollen eyelids to see a face bending over him, looking down.

"Dr. House?"

He struggled for understanding. Was that his name?

Another face swam into view above him. He frowned. At first it was fuzzy in his view and he stared, waiting for delineation. Focus. Ahhh!

Species differentiation! At least he knew that much! It looked fuzzy because it _was_ fuzzy! Black furry face with a wide white blaze, bright eyes, whiskers even longer than his own! Long pink tongue caressing gently at his left ear.

"Amiga?" Speaking was a struggle.

"Oh thank God! He's alive!"

The words jarred his sensibilities, brought the pain to the fore with angry intensity. If this was what "alive" meant, he wasn't sure he wanted that either. He took a deep breath and every part of him paid for it with fire.

"Who are you?"

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The second police helicopter from the Flagstaff Police Department dropped off a plastic barrel with forty gallons of diesel fuel, and four very large tires and rims at the Chindi House. The chopper, however, did not land. After the drop-off, its pilot radioed ahead to Jerry Chatto at Reservation Hospital that Erik Jeffries and Mark Lansa were in custody, and Jerry and his team had been "spot-on" with figuring out what had happened.

They confirmed that three men lay dead at the Chindi House, and that their bodies would be transported later. One gang member had escaped into the desert, but finding him should not be too much of a chore, even if he did know the territory. The chopper was headed into the desert to pick up the critically injured Dr. Gregory House and transport him directly to the trauma wing at Flagstaff Medical Center, and reports of his condition would be forthcoming. Dr. Wilson had already been transported there an hour before.

As soon as Sonny changed the tires on his Hummer, he and the hostage doctors would be returning to Rez. Charlie Begay would deliver the two remaining gang members to the Flagstaff police lockup in the stolen pickup truck and see to it that the truck was returned to its owner.

Jerry heaved a huge sigh of relief at the news. It seemed as though the hard part was almost over. All he had to do now was relay the good news to this hospital full of medical conventioneers and hold his ears to save his hearing at the sound of the uproar of celebration.

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Now there were three faces bending over him, and old memories came flooding back. Once again he was on display like a quarter of beef at a meat counter. He didn't like it, but he couldn't move. He was about to suffer the same indignities he had suffered years before. But at least, then, he'd had the gentle-voiced, iron-willed James Wilson to act as buffer for him.

"Where … is Wilson?" He managed, even as someone lifted his body with kind and gentle hands to turn him and examine the wound in his back where the rifle bullet had entered.

"Please, Dr. House," Dr. Bitters admonished softly, "try not to talk. Your injuries are extensive and we need to examine you."

Well, hell, he already knew that, even as a scream welled up and stifled in his throat at the movement. He tried to touch his face to wipe away some of the grit and the perspiration, but he found that his fingers would not move. He stared at them stupidly and saw that they were grotesquely swollen and bloody, crisscrossed with cuts and scrapes and riddled with splinters. It hurt to touch his skin with them, and after the attempt, his hand hurt even more.

He felt a pressure bandage being applied to the area near his shoulder blade, and someone was fumbling with his injured foot, sending ripples of agony up his leg. But the pain was not localized. It was widespread, and he could not even tell exactly where the wounds were located.

He'd heard the crack of the rifle, knew he'd been hit and was falling, and he had felt the horse falter and go down beneath him. He felt a numb sadness for the animal. Horses had always been man's willing slaves, and this one had not asked for any of this. Ol' Sidewinder, the weed eater, lay dead in the dirt and the clay and the briars.

Someone moved him again and began to further examine his injured foot and leg. This time he did scream. The pain was unbearable and overwhelming. He screamed until his throat was raw. He felt the needle hit his thigh and empty, and the pain diminished, but he still lay gasping, realizing his hand was reaching out uselessly for Wilson. But Wilson was, of course, not there. Another needle emptied into his left arm.

As he felt himself finally sliding into oblivion, he imagined he heard someone say something to someone else about putting a bullet into the horse's brain and end its misery. The poor thing wouldn't make it anyway …

With his last conscious breath, Gregory House shouted into the soft clouds that were beginning to fold so comfortably around him.

"Noooo! You can't … shoot … _Silverware!_ He got the Butch Cavendish Gang!!"

Alan Beckett lowered the pistol slowly and looked over at his wife. "What do you think, Sam?"

"What did he say?" She asked, puzzled.

"He said: 'Don't shoot _Silver-something _ … he got the Butch Cavendish Gang' …" Alan quoted. "Sounds a little like a reference to the Lone Ranger, I believe, but I'm not sure. We really need to put the poor thing out of his misery, don't you think?" Alan raised the gun again and took aim.

"No! Wait!" Samantha watched Bitters and McCann work silently over Dr. House, moving quickly now that he was unconscious, knowing he was critically injured.

"When you just said 'we really need to put the poor thing out of his misery', Gregg said 'no!' Do you think we can save the horse? I mean … my God, Al … we came out here to help heal, not kill things. These people might be a little more willing to listen to some of the new stuff happening in veterinary medicine if we show them we don't kill indiscriminately."

"Sam, this is senseless. The animal is in pain. He's losing blood and dying anyway."

She wasn't listening. She turned to the young police officer standing off to the left, watching, but not interfering. The white eagle feather in his long black hair blew gently across his shoulder in the hot breeze. His dark eyes were unreadable.

"What do you think, Charlie?" She asked. "I saw an old six-wheeler flatbed truck in the barn when Sonny took us on a walk around the hospital grounds on Saturday. If I'm not mistaken, there's an antique Pettibone-Milliken front-end loader too. Do they run?"

"Of course they run," Charlie Begay said. "Sonny hauls manure an' feed with 'em all the time. The Carry-Lift's prob'ly older than God! The damned thing was left, parked in the shed by the Army Air Corps after World War II … an' that truck is a Diamond Rio. It's about fifty or fifty-five years old! … maybe even sixty!"

"There you go, Al." She said, suddenly laughing. "We go back and get the truck and the front-end loader. Load the horse on the truck and bring him back to the barn. Let's try to save him! For Gregg! For whoever owns him!" She was chattering excitedly. "We just need a bigger batch of painkillers for … whazzisname … _Silver_? Part silver and part copper, actually." She smiled.

Alan Beckett uncocked the gun and pointed it at the ground. "Why do I even bother to argue with this woman?" He said to whoever happened to be listening, which he was sure wasn't Samantha.

Off to their left, the sound of hoof beats on the desert floor drew their attention away from the scene in front of them. A young rider in desert garb astride a handsome dappled gray mare slid to a halt very close by. The man raised a moccasined foot over the horse's withers and slid gracefully to the ground. "I'm Elan," he said. "Jerry Chatto told me where to find you. I came to check on 'Spirit Wind'. He's not gonna die, is he?"

The Becketts and Charlie watched the handsome young man walk toward the fallen stallion's head, kneel in the sand and place a loving hand on the animal's neck. The three of them walked closer to him. "I don't know …" said Sam Beckett hesitantly. "Is he your horse?"

"No horse is 'my' horse!" Elan replied softly. "But we live together. He is very strong, and he has a good heart. You fix him up?"

Samantha smiled, hoping she spoke for both of them. "I don't know. I hope so. Would you help us?"

He looked up at her, face solemn, eyes unreadable. Like Charlie's. "I will help."

"Thank you."

Elan stood, bowed, backing away. "They took the rest of the bad guys to jail," he said solemnly. "Three of them croaked. I am so-o-o sad! Ai-i-e-e-e!"

He didn't sound very sad to Samantha.

Elan ran to the gray and leap-mounted effortlessly. "Got other horses to look after now. I'll be back!" He neck-reined the mare into a whirl in the opposite direction and galloped off.

"That was … interesting!" Alan mused.

"But not unexpected," Charlie noted. "He's what you Palefaces call a 'whisperer'!"

"Yeah," Alan agreed with a smile. "A 'Whisperer' with a strange sense of humor!"

Overhead, the whine of an ear-splitting chopper engine churned the heavy air. A blue and silver Bell helicopter was lowering from the sky like a graceful bird, creating tiny tornadoes with its updraft. Gently, it settled to the ground. When the rotor had slowed sufficiently, two police officers and two trauma MDs climbed out and hurried toward them, carrying a stretcher with a metal grid frame, raised sides and a thin mattress for cushioning a patient.

"We came for Dr. Gregory House," one of them said, critically surveying the gravely injured man on the ground. "I guess this is him." They walked up to the unconscious House and set the stretcher by his side. "Okay, boys and girls … we'll be needing all of you."

Together as a team, nine people, five on one side of the doctor and four on the other, knelt down and slid their hands palms-up beneath Gregg's tortured body.

At the command: "Lift!" they picked him up as though he were a child, placed him ever so gently into the stretcher and covered him with a blanket. Two pilots at the front of the stretcher and the two medics at the back, they hurried him to the rear bay of the chopper and placed him inside. Both doctors climbed in beside him and the two pilots hurried to the cockpit.

Everyone held their arms over their heads and shielded their eyes from the sun when the big bird took off and banked like a silver whirlwind into the crystal blue of the sky.

00000000

Susan had refused to walk outside with the rest of them. She huddled in the deep recesses at the far side of the Chindi House and watched everyone else step through the hole in the wall and stand outside talking. She supposed the two cops in the first helicopter would send a hearse and body bags from Tuba City's only funeral home to pick up the three bodies that remained in the Hogan.

There was something distressing about that, but she dismissed it as a last thread of sham anxiety, which still lingered around her like a shroud. She could hear their voices from where she sat, and was not surprised that they had already forgotten she was even present. She had been a thorn in their sides, and none of them cared much for her and her whining and silly hysterics. The whole business of the charade though, had accomplished for her that which she had intended for it to accomplish, and she was more than a little satisfied with her Academy Award performance.

Infiltrating herself into a large group of medical conventioneers had been a perfect cover, and when she finally slipped away to meet Jose for the payoff, no one would miss her. Circumstances, however, had changed that.

Susan Carr needed to scratch beneath the dark wig, but she couldn't do it right without making the thing appear slightly tilted. She would have to wait it out until tonight when she could get out of the gypsy clothing and back into something more comfortable.

Susan looked across at the bodies of gentle Tavon and the boorish Kurtz and felt no sympathy for either one. She had not really had the chance to meet either one of them until they'd shown up with Jose, and none of them had had any idea who she was either.

She fingered the nasty welt on her cheekbone and cursed the stupid cowboy whose excesses and cruelty had been his undoing. She hoped he rotted in the fires of hell for the damage he had done to her face. It would require at least a month in heavy makeup until the contours of her delicate bone structure were back to normal again.

She steeled herself though, when she looked at Jose. His body was under the blanket, and she could not see his face. Jose had been special. She had known him all her life, and had loved him without reservation. Jose was old enough to be her father and then some, but there was a special quality about him that moved her at first to laugh at his wry and subtle jokes, then to a deep admiration for his brilliance in concocting all those schemes, and finally to a deep and abiding love that had lasted her entire adult life.

Susan was forty-four years old, and Jose had been seventy-three, but the thirty-year span between their ages had made not a bit of difference to Susan, and she believed that it did not matter to Jose either. They had intended to take his share of the booty and leave the country forever, contemplating settling down in Rio or Peru or Brazil. Now though, the extortion money from the corporation would be hers alone!

Susan sighed and craned her neck to see what the group outside was up to. They were still talking nonstop about their captivity, speculating about Jose's unknown "fence", Tull's cowardly departure, and the events of the past few days. They were all worried about Dr. House and Dr. Wilson, and further speculation as to their recovery times seemed a favorite topic. Susan, however, could not have cared less about either one of them. She smirked to herself.

Taking great care not to attract attention, she rose to her feet and brushed part of the smelly red dust off her expensive Vera Wang pants. Delicately, she stepped over the trash which had accumulated on the Hogan's floor, including the bodies of Randall and Tavon, both of which had been hastily straightened and aligned for the sake of convenience after rigor mortis set in. No one had given a second thought about anything else for them. She picked her way around the blood on the floor, and over to the cot. Silently she stood looking down at Jose's body. She would miss him indeed, but there were other fish in the sea.

Carefully, Susan turned back the edge of the blanket that covered his face and chest, and patted down the front of his jacket. She could feel the round, flat contours of the two discs in his inside jacket pocket. They were still there, not surprisingly. No one had even thought to search for them, for they'd had no idea what he had done, and a thrill of excitement coursed down her spine when she suddenly realized that she was now the sole beneficiary of the millions of dollars the Soon Chang Corporation would happily pay to have them back.

The discs' slave programs could be used to reveal "Eyes Only" government secrets, and were priceless. This pretentious business of being the "fence" that Jose had told everyone he was going to "meet up with", had been a little exciting, after all, and she had enjoyed the intrigue, along with the secret knowledge that she and Jose had fooled everyone so completely that they would never discover her part in the scheme. She removed the two discs from his pocket and slid them into the very deep pockets of her expensive wide-leg pants. Soon Chang Corp., Inc. would pay dearly for what it had done to her in the past!

She still had a smirk on her face when Sonny Tse suddenly walked through the hole in the wall and caught her pulling the edge of the blanket back over Jose's face.

"What are you doing, Susan?" He asked with a frown on his handsome features.

Susan hid the startled flutter of her heart like a professional, and faced him. Her answer came out a tad harsher than she would have liked. "I had to see the face of the bastard who did this to us," she replied, and met his eyes with a silent stare, daring him to make something of it.

Sonny did not press the issue. "You certainly have the right to do that," he replied. He went to the side of the room where he had been tied hand and foot on the floor, searched for a moment, then retrieved a small medallion and thrust it into his pocket.

"The tires are changed on the HumVee now, and the truck is filled with fuel," he said. "We're going to leave soon to go back to the hospital. The NTP guys will take Lansa and Jeffries back for lockup. Are you ready?"

She nodded, a little more like the whiny Susan this time. "Very!" She said with a sniff.

00000000

"TRIAGE: A process for sorting injured people into groups, based on their need for or likely benefit from immediate medical treatment. Triage is used on the battlefield, at disaster sites, and in hospital emergency rooms when limited medical resources must be allocated."

They used the method with Wilson.

Less serious ER cases were postponed temporarily and his gurney was wheeled directly into one of the two Emergency ORs. A team of physicians worked over him for three hours, finally extracting the bullet which had ploughed through his body, nicking the left lobe of his liver, narrowly missing the stomach and aorta and finally lodging dangerously close to James' spinal cord. He was intubated, hooked to multiple IVs and deeply anesthetized as they labored to patch up the damage, and his surgery necessitated the use of massive amounts of blood.

By the time he got to intensive care and they'd pronounced him out of immediate danger with his blood pressure brought back within acceptable levels, he was pale and hollow-eyed from the blood loss and the dangerous amount of time he'd suffered before receiving treatment. He was surrounded completely by IV lines and electrical scans which were closely monitored. His surgeons spoke in worried tones whether or not his spinal cord had been traumatized to the point of affecting future mobility. They would not know until he regained consciousness.

Gregory House was brought in while Wilson was still in surgery, and immediately administered blood transfusions as had been done with Wilson, plus a staggering number of IVs.

Gregg's shoulder wound was the worst. The bullet had entered his back at the edge of his shoulder blade and taken off a fragment of bone, which had to be dug out. The exit wound in the soft area of skin at the front of his shoulder had created a jagged hole, which blew out shredded strands of muscle and subcutaneous tissue. After a Dugas test and further X-rays, it was discovered that the shoulder blade indeed had a hairline crack along the lateral surface. They applied heavy bandages to cover the wounds and put his shoulder in a strong brace, his right arm strapped tightly to his chest.

Gregg's cuts and bruises were quickly attended to, but the splinters and wood fragments, all located through X-ray, had to be extracted from his fingers and hands one at a time, and it was exhausting work. They soaked his hands in ice water in an attempt to get the swelling down, which worked for a time. The right hand was a challenge, since it could not be strapped down along with his arm. They finally solved the problem with light dressings and a soft latex pad between hand and body.

When they removed the temporary bandages from the disabled leg, the look of it was off-putting. His foot and ankle were angrily distended and purple, and they had to surgically remove a broken-off branch of mesquite that was lodged below the anklebone. The calf of the leg was traumatized and bloodied from the series of vicious kicks he'd suffered from Jeffries and Kurtz.

His thigh was angry and swollen, black and purple all around, including the surgical scar and the badly wrenched knee. Doctors called for X-ray, MRI and Ultrasound. Gregg was in the OR for three hours and in recovery for three additional. His leg, including the knee, was braced and bandaged heavily and placed in an elevated soft-traction brace from the hip down.

Only time would tell whether he would ever walk even a fraction as well as he had before. Every doctor on staff speculated that his cane was history. He would be in a wheelchair for months, crutches after that, and then …

The news of the two men's conditions came to Sonny and the people at Rez Hospital a little after midnight on Tuesday. The conventioneers were all in the dining room when the call came, except for Sam and Al Beckett who were in the barn with Elan and Spirit Wind: _Silver-something_.

By some miracle, the mustang had responded to treatment. The bullet had been removed from his belly. He was on his feet now, and braced by a sling, anchored to the barn rafters. He'd been sedated to the point of drunkenness. His would be a long recovery also, but he would make it. He would be living on bran mash for some time, and Elan or one of the Becketts would remain in the barn with him day and night.

A cheer went up when Jimmy Wilson and Gregg House were pronounced out of immediate danger, and had both been transferred to ICU. Their recovery, however, would probably take months, and in Gregg's case, probably years.

Sonny excused himself and went reluctantly to his office. He had to make a call to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and Administrator, Dr. Lisa Cuddy. It was after three in the morning in New Jersey.

00000000

Cuddy did not answer the phone on the first ring, or the second. And she fumbled the receiver off the hook on the third.

"… Hullo … ?"

"Is this Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

The voice was deep. Somber. Deeply bothered by something.

The adrenaline coursed, and Lisa was awake immediately with a spike of static electricity running through her veins. Eric Foreman pushed himself drowsily to his elbows beside her with questions in his midnight-black eyes. She pushed his head back onto the pillow. He half-smiled and rolled over. Something at the hospital again! Now what?

"This is she …"

Cuddy listened to the voice for a few moments longer, then sat up straight with an anguished gasp.

Foreman blinked and frowned, but was paying close attention now.

"Oh my God! Oh no! How bad? When? _Both of them_?"

Cuddy turned to Foreman, teary eyed when she hung up the phone, and he hugged her close to him. She did not have all the details yet, because Sonny Tse did not have them all either. Her voice carried the overtones of shocked disbelief. Dr. Tse had promised more information after they arrived. "Get up, Eric!" she said at last. "We're going to Arizona on the first flight out. House and Wilson are both in the hospital in Flagstaff, in intensive care!"

"_Wha-a-t_?"

He already had his pants and shirt on and was stepping into his shoes. He dug his wallet out of his pants and handed her $300. "Make the reservations and get packed. I'll go the hospital and let them know. Then I'll call Chase. Cameron will have to find out from him when she comes in later this morning. We don't have time to wait for them … do we?"

"No," she agreed. "And I'm not in the mood for any dumb questions I can't answer yet, or Allison's crocodile tears. I'll call the airline and meet you at DENNY's for breakfast in an hour."

"Got'cha." He was gone by the time she opened the bathroom door.

00000000

At Rez Hospital, the tired physicians finally began to wander off to bed at 2:00 a.m. More detailed discussions and other decisions would have to wait until morning. Everyone needed to sleep after this disturbing turn of events, and morning would come a little earlier for them all, perhaps, with coffee and some ham and eggs to reinforce them. The downstairs lights went off at 2:30 a.m., Mountain Time. Al and Sam Beckett and Elan, were still in the barn with the mustang. For them, it would be a long night. Sonny rounded up Amiga, sat and stroked her thick coat lovingly, and then they walked out to the barn together to talk with them.

In a tiny bedroom off the third floor mezzanine, a light glowed long after all the others had been extinguished. Susan Carr, transformed from a longhaired brunette, was now a glitzy blonde, complete with short spiky haircut, wide-wale brown cords and a tan desert blouse. Her shoes were the latest female craze: tall, incredibly awkward stacked heels, thick soles and a wide strap across the instep.

She carried a tan outsize purse and her loopy earrings hung nearly to her shoulders. The Susan Carr of the Medical Conference group had gone away completely. In her place was a twenty-first century hippie with nothing left of her former identity except the wide blue eyes. Her suitcase was packed and standing by her side, waiting, and the stolen computer hardware was ferreted deep inside it within a plain music CD case, looking for all the world like an eclectic song collection belonging to a long-time _Elvis_ fan.

Finally, Susan turned off the little light and opened her door, looking both ways down the dark hall, hearing and seeing nothing. She pulled the door closed behind her and took the stairs all the way down to the ground floor. It would not do to run the noisy elevator and be caught in the act of slinking away with crime evidence in her Gucci luggage.

She crossed the area out back under the cover of darkness and walked to her rental car, one of the new Thunderbirds, opened the door and placed the large suitcase and the purse in the back seat. She got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled slowly away from the compound. The headlights spiked a twin path through the pebbles and red dust as the car rolled silently through the perimeter gate.

In the doorway of the barn, Sam, Alan and Elan were talking quietly with Sonny, discussing the probable prognoses of Wilson and House, and making a general fuss over Amiga, taking a short breather from administering to the sick mustang.

"Who in the hell was that? Susan?" Samantha asked, frowning. "And where is she going at this time of night? No McDonalds nearby that I know of."

"Must have a hot date waiting in Tuba City," Alan remarked with a grin. She and Alan and Sonny laughed for a moment then, and Elan just looked puzzled. The three of them turned and went back into the barn.

Sonny left them and walked back to the main building with Amiga at his side, a little perplexed, and beginning to wonder about a few things.

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193


	18. Chapter 18

- Chapter 18 -

"For the Love of Gregg and Jimmy"

There was a band playing somewhere. Something old and saxophony and bluesy, and a female singer with a nasal quality that made him wince. There was a piano in the background, hammering the daylights out of the keyboard in a kind of counter-attack and sounding as though it was coming from an old eight-track tape where one track melted into another one, screwing up the beat and fucking up the melody so badly it gave you a headache. Kind of like hearing "Night and Day" mixed with "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue", only worse. It set his teeth on edge, and he suddenly realized it was not good at all for his teeth to be set on edge. Something in his jaw didn't feel quite right about that!

He took a chance and opened his eyes. In the same instant, he discovered that the music he was hearing was not music at all, but the cacophonous beeping of bedside monitors. There were no saxophones, no nasal female voice, and no hammering piano keyboard. He could hear the cardiac monitor muttering to itself, the automatic BP doing its monotonous intermittent hissing and clicking; and the endless goddamn beeping! He felt as though he could distinguish each individual drip of every IV, and his own breathing was magnified in his hearing through the uncomfortable plastic mask that covered his nose and mouth. He knew he was also hooked up to a catheter because it was hellishly uncomfortable.

He also began to realize that he was unable to move, and that one of the IVs was undoubtedly an infusion of morphine, because the memory of the past however-many agonizing hours was coming back. He remembered the pain-stacked-upon-pain of it, and the crack of the rifle that ended it all and resulted in his presence here. And yet, there was no pain!

So, where the hell was "here"?

Gregory House tried to turn his head to look around, and then quickly thought better of it. Even the movement of his head upon his shoulders was restrained, and he felt a moment of unresolved anger. Was _this_ what it was like to be paralyzed? He closed his eyes again, and attempted to take a deep breath. That effort did not result in pain, but expanding his ribcage in order to do so, turned quickly into a bad idea. He had to settle for eyeball movement, which sucked big time! His view to the right was obstructed somewhat by the shadow of the bandage he could discern over his right eyebrow and running all the way down along the line of his jaw. Damn! When he tried to work his jaw back and forth, he could feel the uncomfortable pull of adhesive tape.

Ow! 

He decided to look at what he could see, and try to wiggle whatever would wiggle. He could move his left arm and hand … but _whoa_! The arm was fine, but the hand was swaddled in gauze, wrapped around and around his fingers, his thumb, halfway to his elbow. _What_? The splintered wood of the damned fence! Even at the time it was happening, he'd known it was happening! But he could not bear weight on his right foot, and the muscles of his thigh would not lift the foot off the ground. His leg had been transformed into a fucking pull-toy, and he'd been double-screwed! He'd felt every splinter going through his skin, but at the time, there was no other choice. He wiggled his fingers in keeping with the "wiggle" method, and they did indeed move okay. Must have been a royal pain in the ass for the doctors to remove all the splinters though. He'd probably bled all over everything!

He found he could also wiggle the toes of his left foot. He could rotate the ankle, and even, after a fashion, bend the knee. Just not very far! His right hand lay against his chest. It was bandaged like the left one was, and cushioned in something soft, but the fingers were wiggleable. Good! The arm was strapped down somehow, and quite immobile.

Oh yeah. He probably had a hole in his back the size of a dining room table, and possibly one at the front of his shoulder as well. The rifle bullet must have entered his back at an angle and come out through his shoulder, judging from the way his arm was positioned. It was impossible to see all of it. Thank God for the morphine! The pain would be intolerable! As it was, he could still feel the pressure; the pain, when it finally arrived, would be horrendous.

Last … his leg. He'd caught a glimpse of the traction apparatus when he'd first opened his eyes, but could not look at it at first, in any sort of unemotional way. So he hadn't looked. But now that he was taking a personal inventory, looking was inevitable. His foot and ankle were heavily bandaged, so the damage had been extensive. But he'd already known that. He could see a few dark stains beginning to seep through the gauze just below the inside anklebone, so it was more than just ligament damage.

His knee was wrapped with the widest bandage made by "Ace". He could recall the vicious kicks he'd received there, and the fact that he'd lost consciousness for a time because of them. If his leg had gone into spasm as a result of the abuse, he didn't remember it.

He shuddered to think of what it would be like when they began to wean him off the morphine. The site of the infarction had been left alone. Anything pressing down on that particular part of his anatomy would only increase his pain later, but he could see the mottled bruising and the swelling that necessitated the traction splint, and it was enough to make him hitch his breath.

He tensed, shaking. A numbing horror gripped his mind, a fear of what the consequences might be once he had begun to heal from this terrible experience. Would he ever walk again? He could look forward to weeks in bed … and in a wheelchair … until the shoulder healed enough for the use of crutches. More weeks until the further damage to the bad leg was assessed. And what would come after?

_Fuck!_

He needed to cry, crawl into a corner and mourn for his sorry state, because nobody else would! He needed to stomp. And curse. And throw things, fragile things that would splinter into a thousand tiny fragments against a wall.

Just as he had thrown the coffee cup at that idiot back in the kitchen of Rez Hospital! But what had it gotten him? Events that had finally led to this goddamn hospital bed and a very bleak future!

Gregg closed his eyes. He couldn't look anymore.

When his vision of the room blanked, however, Jimmy Wilson's bright image was suddenly there to take its place: the brown twinkle of his gaze, the moppy auburn hair, the soft smile on that friendly face, the irony in the slyly mocking voice: _"Dolphin?_ I would have thought … _submarine!_" And then the grin, growing, spreading ear to ear. "Haw-haw-haw!"

How could he have forgotten Wilson? How?

He had been too busy feeling sorry for himself, that's how! Where was Wilson? _How_ was Wilson? Had they gotten to him in time to save his life?

_Oh God … Wilson!_

House's respiration rate jumped as the unleashed adrenaline hit his bloodstream.

Another monitor began to beep. Respiratory overload. He could feel himself rushing headlong into hyperventilation. He could not move.

The door to his room burst open and a nurse was at his side immediately. She must have been right outside. The woman pulled off the mask and reached to one of the IVs. His breathing slowed. He gulped for air that was unfiltered. His racing heart calmed down.

"Are you all right, Dr. House?"

"Yeah … yeah. Never better! Gonna do a round of golf this afternoon and hire a hooker for tonight." He had not intended the disrespect. It spewed out of his mouth of its own volition, like intentionally pissing in a swimming pool. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

She smiled slightly. "Actually, you're one of the less vitriolic ones. I've heard much worse."

"Yeah. Know what you mean. Been there, done that. Got the sweatshirt, the tee-shirt, the hat and the towel!"

She smiled slightly, and then turned away from him to check the bank of monitors lined up by the bed. "Are you in any kind of pain? Or is the morphine still holding it off?"

"I'm fine!" He snapped, the stock answer rolling out of him as it always did to someone he didn't know very well … exactly the same way he reacted to others whom he _did _know very well!

The nurse came back to him, began checking bandages, braces, IV ports and the morphine feed. "I see your foot is bleeding again; the bandage needs changing, so I'll send someone in to take care of it."

"What happened? I knew it was screwed up, but didn't know it was bloody."

"Mesquite branch," she told him. "Went in beneath your ankle bone, broke off and ripped soft tissue and skin. Nasty laceration. One of the medics who brought you in said it probably happened when you and the horse fell. It took minor surgery to close, I think, and they were afraid it might leak a little. You're lucky to be alive, Dr. House."

He nodded shortly, already wishing he hadn't mentioned it. "What can you tell me about Dr. Wilson? James Wilson. They shot him in the abdomen. He lay untreated for at least twenty-four hours. Did they get him out of there in time?" He knew his voice was trembling.

The nurse placed a hand gently on his sound shoulder. "They did indeed get him out, but he's not on this floor. I'll check for you if you wish."

"He's here? He's alive?"

"Yes, Dr. House. He's here and he's very much alive. He presented with peritonitis from not being treated for such a lengthy period of time, but he's doing well now, I believe. He's in critical care on the third floor. He should be waking up soon, if he hasn't already. He a friend of yours?"

"Yeah. Colleague. We flew out here from New Jersey together for Dr. Tse's conference on the Navajo Reservation. 

"Oh My God! You're _those_ doctors! I should have known right away! It's all over the media. You're famous!"

"Oh great! Aint that just peachy!"

Wilson is alive! Wilson is okay! 

Gregory House was smiling when he closed his eyes again. He was sleeping when the nurse gathered a tangle of spent supplies and left soundlessly.

00000000

It was getting late. The sun was falling out of the sky. Beyond the windows, neon was glowing.

James Wilson had lost all concept of time. He didn't want to regain consciousness; didn't want to return to the deep reservoirs of pain to which he had been awakening over and over again for hours and endless hours.

He was canted very slightly onto his right side; knees bent a little, buffering the endless gnawing pain in his stomach and the tension he could feel in his back and shoulders. There was a tightness across his belly that felt somewhat as though something clumsy and heavy was weighing him down, doubling him up and exerting pressure, holding his guts tightly inside his body to keep them from spilling out onto the hard-packed clay floor.

Both his arms crisscrossed at his middle, giving that clumsy, heavy thing additional leverage. His legs felt a little numb, a little tingly, a little bit as though the skin of his calves and thighs were too tautly stretched over bone and muscle. He did not want to open his eyes, not at all, because he knew the only thing within his direct line of vision would be the bottom of the cot and the restless pacing legs of Kurtz and Jeffries and Lansa, and the hard surface of the floor, pushing heavily on his painful left hip, ribcage and shoulder.

The only good thing was the quasi-comforting grip of Nikki Asdza, and he could feel her anxiety for him almost through his pores as she held him close to her side all those painful hours without letup. He could not thank her; could not let her knew how deeply he appreciated her caring and her unceasing support. But he would when he could. He _would_!

Something external drew his attention for a moment, and he listened to the sound of someone saying something just beyond the range of his hearing. It was a gentle, deep-throated and soft voice somewhere mid-range in the aural band, and he recognized it, and yet … not. It kept calling his name.

"Jimmy … Jimmy … wake up, beautiful boy …"

Blythe? Blythe House? Impossible! Gregg's mother used to call me that too.

"Jimmy?" Another mid-range voice chimed in, a little higher than the first one.

He turned his head a tad to the left, acknowledging.

"Aaahhh …"

Pain! 

"Dr. Wilson?"

He let his eyes drift open by degrees, and it was evening, and the surface beneath his body was soft; not hard-packed clay. He was hearing beeps and whirrs and clicks and something hissing. Ah. He was being administered oxygen. This was definitely not the floor of that primitive Hogan. Something in his belly cramped suddenly, and he tightened his arms across his middle in response.

_Ow_!

He was in a hospital bed, surrounded by banks of monitors and strung up on sensors and tubes like a marionette.

Oh man! 

He turned his head to acknowledge the voices, and the room spun out of control like a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl.

Whoa … 

"Dr. Wilson, how do you feel?" A nurse. He stared at her until his vision swam into focus. He did not know her. Where was he?

"I've … been better," he ventured.

Someone on the other side of him laughed quietly. "Sweet Jimmy! 'Less-is-More' is not always the answer, dear …"

He could not see her, but he knew who it was. "Nikki? Come over here. Thanks … for helping me." Even those few words exhausted him, but he needed to say them.

Her sturdy image floated gradually from right to left and into his line of sight. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Get well quickly." Behind her, Rema filled up the remainder of the area of perception he could handle right now. So he smiled, letting them know he was still with them. He could manage nothing further at the moment.

Off somewhere to the left, the nurse fiddled with his IV feeds, the catheter, everything else that plugged him back into life, and he could not keep track of them all. He searched their faces dumbly, but words would not come. Only one thought, one concentration of interest filled him at the moment. Only one answer to one question kept him awake long enough to ask it:

"House … how is House?"

The nurse hesitated only a fraction, but he picked up on the hesitation immediately. He was not that ill! "Tell me!"

"He's … responding to treatment." She finally said. "You should sleep now, Dr. Wilson."

Something didn't sound quite right about that non-answer, but he was so tired …

00000000

Foreman and Cuddy hopped an economy flight to Phoenix and arrived, finally, at seven in the evening. They picked up their luggage and Cuddy checked with the front desk. The girl behind the counter offered a leaflet, which contained the names and phone numbers of private pilots who did short hops for reasonable rates. They thanked her and scanned the list. Lisa said: "Eeny-meeny-miney-moe …" and Foreman jabbed the list with his forefinger. They made a call.

They were dead on their feet, but they were in Flagstaff by midnight. They hired a taxi and checked in at "Tu-Sandies", a mom-and-pop motel just off the interstate from the airport, and a few miles away from the Flagstaff Medical Center where Sonny had told Cuddy that her "boys" had been admitted.

They signed the register and lugged their bags to the rooms at the head of the motel's concourse. They returned to the lobby shortly thereafter, and lingered at the front desk, pouring through the local phone book, each with a cup of vending-machine coffee in hand. Behind the desk, an older gentleman inquired if he could help them with anything, and they were happy to let him assist. "We need to rent a car, and we need directions to the Medical Center, please." Cuddy told him.

The man eyed their signatures on his logbook and his snowy eyebrows curled in question. "Ahhh … I see you're from New Jersey, and this is a strange time of night to be checking into a motel. Would I be amiss in asking whether you have any connection to the doctors who were injured by the gang that caused the ruckus over at Soon Chang?"

Cuddy and Foreman both frowned. "Yes we are. How did you know? And what do you know about our doctors?" The look on Cuddy's face was one of incredulity.

The man smiled in sympathy. "I like to keep on the pulse of things. Since they are from Princeton, New Jersey also, I'm assuming they may be colleagues of yours. Correct?"

Cuddy and Foreman both nodded, surprised by his quick ability to connect the dots. Their coffee sat on the check-in counter, untouched and growing cold. "Yes. We are. I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy, their supervisor, and this is Dr. Eric Foreman, a member of our staff. We need to get over there to see them. They are both very important to our hospital, and both are not only colleagues, but close friends."

"I see. Well, your Drs. House and Wilson are media heroes. Their story has been all over TV, radio and the papers. In an indirect way, they were responsible for the capture of the gang that pulled the robbery, and those men are now under arrest and cooling their heels in our jail. The thing has turned into a media circus, for want of a better name, because of the murders, and the town is swarming with reporters from all over the place. The authorities are still looking for one gang member who escaped, and also the person with the blood money!"

Foreman shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Oh Man! Just what we need! Murders?"

The elderly man smiled sadly. "The gang killed two security guards at Soon Chang, and three of the gang members died in the desert where your friends were being held hostage. It's quite a sad story, and I'm sure they will tell you much more than the media thinks it knows! I do quite understand how you must feel about this. However, I have a suggestion."

Both tired heads snapped up, two sets of eyes burned into his face. "And that is?" Cuddy asked.

"My name is Sandy Overmyer," he said. "My wife Sandi and I …"

"You're both named 'Sandy'?"

"Yeah … it gets a little confusing sometimes. My name is Alexander and hers is Sandra. Just a little joke that fate chose to play on us. So we call the motel 'Tu-Sandies, and we've been here since 1966. But never mind that. I think I can probably help you keep a lid on this … if you decide you'd like it that way."

"Oh, we would!"

He smiled. "Okay. I'll hire the rental car for you, charge it to the motel account and add it to your bill. My brother owns the local Enterprise franchise here, and he'll bring the car here himself. He can be trusted to keep quiet so the media doesn't find out about you being here … at least not right away." His hand was already moving toward the phone. "Does that sound fair to you?"

Lisa Cuddy gulped. "You have _no_ idea how much we appreciate this!"

"Oh yes I do," he chuckled. "We've done it before, and we keep a very low profile." He punched a single key on the speed dial. "None of the other people registered here will have any idea what's going on. The conversation on the telephone lasted thirty seconds. "Need a car. Compact. Here at the motel. Like yesterday!"

They heard the reply. Four words: "Give me ten minutes." The phone clicked.

"He lives a mile from here … always keeps at least one of the rental cars at his place. It's pretty much off the beaten path out here, so I think we've got all the bases covered. Our sister is a doctor … in fact; she's on the staff of Dr. Tse's Reservation Hospital where both your doctors were attending a medical conference. You may run into her before this is all over. Her name is Rema Marks, and she tells us she's fallen madly in love with both of them! Calls the older one 'Gray Fox', and she calls the young one 'Beautiful Jimmy'. 'Course, they may not appreciate that I told you that." Sandy's dark eyes were twinkling.

Car lights splashed the side of the motel and flared through the front window. Two vehicles pulled into the parking spaces out front quietly and shut off the lights and ignition. "Looks like Paul and Jeanie are here already. He drops off the car and she takes him home again. Like I said, we've got you covered. You'll be driving the Ford Focus. Not a splashy ride, but she'll get you there and back."

Foreman and Cuddy exchanged incredulous glances. If the circumstances had been different, they would love to have spent more time with this man. As it was, they knew they had to go. They thanked him and hurried out the front door. The Focus stood by the entryway. A short, stocky man was getting out from behind the wheel, leaving the driver's door ajar. They both called back over their shoulders. "Thank you!"

Foreman drove and Cuddy settled into the passenger seat. In an instant they were back on the road, headed for Flagstaff and the medical facility where they would find Dr. House and Dr. Wilson.

"'Gray Fox'? 'Beautiful Jimmy'? Eric, what kind of spell have those two been casting out here?? Or, more accurately, what … out here … has been casting a spell over _them?_ I have a feeling," Cuddy speculated with an amused lilt to her voice, "that something is weaving some kind of magic spell over _something _in this strange Navajo country …"

Foreman looked over at her with a scowl on his face, and then reached across the seat to take her hand into his own. "Sounds a lot different from the one they've been weaving in New Jersey … or the one New Jersey has woven on them!" He grunted sarcastically.

00000000

202


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 –

"Tu-Sandies Motel"

One of the neon tubes had failed in the sign above the roof. It read: "Tu…andys" and it distracted from the small motel's otherwise classy exterior. At the entrance to the well-tended, well-lit macadam lot, a white Thunderbird with a dense film of road grime, pulled up to the curb in front of the office.

It was just before 5:00 on Wednesday morning, and the sky to the east was beginning to lighten enough to cast dim shadows. Traffic sounds echoed from the noisy highway a little over a half mile away, but the location of this small motel almost guaranteed a sense of peace, standing as it did, far enough from the busy thoroughfares of Flagstaff to assure silence and a sense of privacy to each guest.

There were two tractor-trailer rigs parked near the rear of the lot, and a smattering of out-of-state cars, SUVs and pickups here and there in front of some of the units. All the room lights were out, their occupants still sleeping and oblivious to approaching dawn. The T-Bird's driver, a tall, thin blonde woman got out from behind the wheel and reached her arms high over her head in a muscle-limbering stretch. Looking around her, she paused to pull the driver's seat forward and remove a large tan purse and a large brown suitcase from the dark depths of the back seat. Slinging the purse over her shoulder and hefting the suitcase, she boinked the T-Bird's security system with the small remote in her opposite hand. The locks clicked and she turned toward the office where a small dim lamp burned at the counter, and reflected off the snowy hair of an elderly black man who was apparently "minding the store".

Susan left the suitcase outside on the concourse and pulled open the office door. The man behind the counter looked up owlishly from behind a pair of half-glasses which were perched on the end of his nose. He folded the newspaper he'd been reading and placed it beneath the counter's top shelf. "My!" He said, smiling, "you're certainly keeping some very late hours … or maybe I should say some very early hours. Do you have your days and nights mixed up?"

She scowled at him, but realized he was only making conversation. No need to be suspicious of every word that came out of people's mouths. Her face went from a frown to a smile as she caught herself and let her expression relax. "I'm sorry," she said tightly, "but I've been on the road for hours. Came up on the interstate from Phoenix, and I was tired when I left there. I just need to crash for a couple of hours before starting out again. You do have a room available, don't you?"

"Of course," he replied. "As a matter of fact, if you walk out of this office and turn to the right, there's an empty unit just two doors down. Not far to carry any luggage you may have, and no need even to move your car. It's fine where it is. Will that be all right?"

"That will do very well. Thanks."

Sandy Overmyer swung the register around where she could sign it. "How will you be paying for the room?" He asked.

"Debit card … I don't use credit cards." She dug in the large purse and extracted a matching wallet. She pulled a plastic card from a line of others along a row of pockets inside the wallet and placed it face-up in front of him.

"Thank you," Sandy said as he took the card and ran its magnetic strip through his machine. "That's $62.35 total. Hmmm … long way from home, aren't you?"

She looked at him puzzled for a moment. "Yeah, guess I am … lot of miles between Phoenix and Clovis …Oh … you mean because my bank's in Boston? No, not really. Boston was my hometown, but I haven't been back in years." She was having a certain amount of fun spinning fairy tales as she went along. "I don't even know why I keep the account active. I just do." She scrawled the name on the card into the register very quickly. "Sue Carson, Clovis, NM." Then she scowled. There was something oddly disconcerting about the two names just ahead of hers in the register, put there at 12:37 a.m. "Lisa Cuddy, Princeton NJ. and Eric Foreman, Princeton NJ". Was she missing something here? Oh hell no! She was exhausted, reading things into every odd-looking piece of information around her. She needed to knock this crap off! She signed the same name on the credit slip Mr. Overmyer offered her, along with a room key. A moment later, she took her receipt and the key and thanked him.

Sandy watched the strange blonde woman turn and retreat out the door of the office. She picked up a large suitcase, which she had obviously left beside the door when she walked in, and made her way slowly to the right with it. Something about her demeanor bothered him, but Sandy could not put anything together. He was tired. For a brief moment he wondered how the two doctors from New Jersey were making out at the hospital, and how their injured colleagues were doing.

And he wondered how the trucker with the migraine headache in Unit #14 was feeling by now. He sighed and lifted his gaze out into the brightly lit parking lot, paling now with the rising of the morning sun. The mercury vapors and the rooftop neons would soon switch off for the day. He really needed to call an electrician to repair that sign! His view was blocked somewhat by the presence of the filthy Thunderbird, and he had to shift his eyes up and to the left a little. As he did, the sun lifted above the horizon beyond the highway off-ramp and hit him full in the face. "Ouch!" It was going on 6:00 a.m. One more hour before his relief checked in and he could get some shut-eye. Sandy began to put things in order at the desk.

00000000

"Different floors?" Was Lisa Cuddy's first reaction when she and Eric Foreman arrived at Flagstaff Med Center to check on James Wilson and Gregory House.

The attending physician on the second floor where Wilson still lay in recovery, hooked to monitors and IVs, eyed her with a moment of suspicion until she dug her identification out of her purse and flashed it in his face.

"Ahh … I see," he said as her underlying meaning and a lot of other things became clear in his mind. She was the Momma Bear, the Boss! These were _her_ cubs lying injured in _his_ hospital …and she was in full protective mode. He stepped away from Wilson's critical-care room and lowered the clipboard upon which he'd been taking notes. "You're worried about the publicity hounds tracking them down unless someone is with both of them around the clock. Right?"

"You're reading my mind, Dr. Chee," Cuddy replied. "If they're on the same floor, it will be much easier to monitor them both … and since Dr. Foreman and I are here now, and available, wouldn't it make more sense to put them both on the same floor? How about adjoining rooms? How about in the _same_ room? You do have the facilities for that, don't you?"

"Yes we do, Dr. Cuddy, of course. But our double-occupancy critical-care rooms are all on this floor and are at full capacity. It would necessitate transferring, at the minimum, three patients, to free up one of the rooms for both of them."

"And would that be an imposition? Are the three patients still critical, or are they stable enough to be moved? I'm only asking because Dr. House and Dr. Wilson are both becoming 'media darlings', if you will, and I'm afraid they may be in danger of being bothered by 'media idiots' before they're up for it … and Dr. Chee … you have _no idea_ what Dr. House can be like when he is inconvenienced … so please … if it is at all possible … could you arrange to have them placed together in the same room and allow Dr. Foreman and me to stay with them? Please!"

The dark-eyed physician's face remained skeptical for a minute as he considered. Lisa Cuddy could almost hear the little wheels whirring inside his head, even as she could feel the heat from Eric Foreman's body close to her side. She looked up into Foreman's face and her features softened for a moment. He winked at her, but retained his stance of studied nonchalance, and she returned her attention to the pensive Attending.

Finally the physician met her eyes. He spoke at last, but more in a muse of reflection to himself than as a statement to the diminutive woman standing beside him. "If I move Mr. Coltrane out of CC#1 and Mr. Holberg out of #2, they should both be fine. They were due for transfer to private rooms tomorrow … I should say today … anyway. That way I can put Joey Apple over with Richard Valentine in CC#1 and free up CC#2 for Dr. Wilson and Dr. House. Yeah … that would work."

"Then you can do it without hurting your own patients? Or ours?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes." Chee's voice returned to the positive. He pulled a pen from his pocket and made a series of notations on the clipboard. "We can do this! I can't begin the exchange though, until after shift change at 7:00 a.m. There isn't quite enough time to start right now. It will probably take an hour to accomplish … maybe longer, depending on availability of personnel. I can do it some time after seven when all our Orderlies, RNs and LPNs will have arrived fresh.

"Since your people are both heavily sedated, they can probably be moved without either of them experiencing any unnecessary pain, or even being aware of it at all." Chee looked from one of them to the other. "I can't give you full authorization for dressing changes or meds … I'm not sure what the rules are for out-of-state doctors in Arizona. I've never had something like this come up in my experience before. But I'll authorize 'Visitor M.D.' status for both of you, and you can monitor every other shift with House and Wilson. If something comes up though, you _must_ ring for in-hospital assistance. Will that be satisfactory?"

Foreman and Cuddy both nodded. "You will have our full cooperation … and appreciation, Dr. Chee." Cuddy told him. "Would it be all right if we go into Dr. Wilson's room and sit with him until it's time for them to come get him?"

Chee nodded. "Of course. Go ahead. He's not awake, nor will he be for some hours yet, but you're welcome to sit with him. Later, if you'd like to go up to sit with Dr. House awhile also, I'll let his attending know. Call for me if you need anything. Okay?"

They nodded. "Thank you."

"I'll send someone over with coffee." Chee walked away, still checking his notes.

Foreman opened the door to Wilson's room and they walked in quietly. At the head of James' bed an attractive bronzed Asian nurse was checking his vitals, his oxygen cannula, his Foley. She looked up as they entered. "May I help you?"

They stood respectfully off to the side and identified themselves. The nurse nodded and went about her monitoring. "He was badly hurt, this one," she said finally, "and we weren't sure about him for awhile, mostly due to the fact that he wasn't treated right away. But he's responding well now, and he's going to be fine." 

Cuddy looked at the drawn, pale face, the mop of auburn hair haloed on the pillow around it. James Wilson was a strong, vital man, but he looked so small now, so ridiculously young, so alone and vulnerable. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and reached for Eric's hand for support and strength. She was not normally an emotional creature, but this was different. The motionless patient across the room was one of the most gentle of men, and it hurt to see him like this.

Foreman squeezed her fingers gently in his strong hand, understanding exactly what she was feeling, experiencing it himself. In his heart, he could not help wondering what she would go through when she saw Gregory House …

00000000

Dr. Sonny Tse sat in his darkened office behind his desk, both elbows planted on the surface before him, the heels of both hands holding up his chin. His long dark hair cascaded over his shoulders as he sat there pondering events. He was upset; angry, disheartened, disappointed with himself for assisting in the taking of a life, and holding himself responsible for the ruination of a promising medical conference and wasting the time and resources of a hundred guests, who'd had everything turned upside down in their faces.

It seemed that he'd been running into road block after road block for years; so many promising possibilities in the offing for the Navajo people; all squashed just before the finish line by circumstances so far beyond his own control, and ground to dust by one nasty break after another. Sonny was beginning to feel a little like a martyr, and that was not like him at all. Dying for a worthy cause was not a line he'd ever written into his book of life, and he was not only angry, he was totally pissed off!

Sonny reached for the cup of bitter, heated-up coffee cooling on the corner of his desk and took a short swallow. "Ai-e-e … God!" He put it down quickly and wiped his mouth on his wrist. It was time to stop the moping! Absently, he picked up the ancient, ruined padlock retrieved from the broken side door and studied it.

Nola had put it there, no doubt. The big woman was his Rock of Gibraltar when it came to the mechanics of this place. She had been here when he'd taken over the operation of it and began turning it into a hospital. She'd still been on the government payroll then. Came out here once a week at odd times; never the same twice, and checked the place for break-ins, broken windows and the like, and reported anything out of the way to the office of the Army Recruiter in Tuba City.

She knew the bare bones of the place, and knew where all the old stuff was stored, and where the termites still lurked in the woodwork. She knew the contents of every crumpled cardboard box and every rusty shelf in the place. Someday, Sonny hoped, they would manage to find the funds to convert more of those old storage rooms into clinic space, labs, X-Ray, MRI, Ultra-Sound.

Someday!

The lock in his hand was brass. It was a small breakaway model, probably appropriated from an old stock of them and hung "temporarily" at the seldom-used door. Then "temporary" had become "permanent" after all these years. He'd seen others like it somewhere, but couldn't remember where. They'd been most often used to prevent tampering with the antique fire system, but easily broken away from curb-valve or hydrant when the system needed to be activated. The old "OS&Y" fire-containment apparatus had been installed by the Army in the early 50s, and it was a bone-buster to work on. Most of the riser plates were rusted shut, and he did not understand how they held air anymore. Sonny himself, never went near it, and knew of no one else who did. It was just one more on the long list of things around here which needed to be replaced.

Fortunately, Nola and Oscar and Chaz had been instrumental in leading the three men from NTB into looking in the right places for intruders, finding the broken lock and figuring out the rest of it in record time. It was too late to keep Jimmy and Gregg from being seriously injured in the resulting tragic events, but hopefully, now that the two remaining felons were in jail and Jimmy and Gregg were resting and recuperating in the hospital, he could apologize to his visitors and let them leave four days early without making any enemies among them.

Sonny sighed, feeling guilty as hell about what happened to the two doctors. Jerry Chatto had called to report that they were hot on the trail of the Hopi, Hosteen Tull, the one who had escaped into the desert, and were trying to run down leads on the "contact" who'd been so eagerly awaited by the henchmen of Jose Suarez in order to collect what was evidently quite a large payoff for each of them. Jerry had said the death of Suarez had put the kibosh on any information from that source, however, and whoever the person was that they were waiting for, had very likely melted quietly back into the desert. Angry and disappointed, but still unknown and at large.

Was Tull somehow mixed up with the buyer? The "fence"? Sonny wondered. No, not likely. He had run away on foot and headed south-southeast. Elan, the Whisperer, had watched him go and had only mentioned it to the tribal cops in passing. Tull was interested in keeping his skinny ass out of jail, nothing else.

So who was the contact? And what in hell had he been waiting so long to lay claim to? There was a spark of something lurking maddeningly at the edge of Sonny's mind, but he could not shake it loose.

_Where_ had the contact been hanging out? It stood to reason that he was someplace nearby. Waiting. Watching. Keeping an eye peeled for Suarez and the extremely valuable … _what_? What did Suarez have that the other man was ready to pay such an exorbitant price for? What was so priceless that it made seven men willing to commit murder and put their own lives on the line? What was so valuable as to make a human life so cheap and end in five killings and two cripplings? The whole business made no sense at all!

00000000

Johnny Atwood was a skinny kid, about to be a senior at Arizona State U. He lived not far from Sky Harbor Airport and drove an ancient and noisy yellow Volkswagen beetle, circa 1970-something. A few overnight guests were already milling around sleepily when he pulled onto the lot at Tu-Sandies and shut the thing off. It sputtered with post ignition hiccups for at least five more seconds after the key was already out of the ignition. Sandy was happy to see the boy arriving. It had been a long night. He listened to the kid's cowboy boots beat a loud cadence across the macadam and onto the porch. The door flew open and Johnny's fiery red hair ceased to float skyward and settled down on his head. It was one minute to seven. "Hi Sandy!" The kid said loudly, letting the door slam behind him.

"Hi yourself, John," Sandy replied with a grin. The kid had worked for him every summer since he was in high school, and the two of them enjoyed an easy rapport and a long friendship filled with laughter and respect. He looked up just in time to see Johnny's body suddenly disappear beneath the check-in counter, and then rise into view again with a white legal-size envelope in his hand. "This yours?" The kid asked.

"Nope," Sandy told him. "Never saw it before. What is it?"

Johnny turned the envelope over and read the address. "'Susan Carr. 377 Faulkner. Flagstaff.' Do you know a Susan Carr?"

"Nope. Never heard of her."

"Wait!" Johnny was saying. "The return address is Dr. Sonny Tse out at Rez Hospital. You think we should snoop inside?"

Sandy frowned. "What? Yeah," he said, eyebrow rising. "Open it."

Inside was a short form letter: An acknowledgment of application for a medical conference to run from August 29 thru September 3rd. Stapled to the letter was a small photo of a thin, dark-haired woman. Sandy Overmyer figured he'd have to be living under a rock to not recognize the face. "Sue Carson, Clovis NM." alias "Susan Carr, Flagstaff, AZ". The hairs at the back of Sandy's neck stood straight up.

"Oh boy!" He said. A hundred conflicting thoughts buzzed for attention in his head.

Why the hell would she lie? 

00000000

Foreman had been right about Lisa's reaction to House.

It was 7:30 a.m., and they were still waiting for the room-to-room transfer to begin. He and Cuddy, each clutching a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, had ridden up in the elevator and entered House's room.

Foreman prided himself in being a strong, emotionally detached doctor. The status, good or bad, of severely injured patients, concerned him deeply, but it did not do justice to the shock he felt as he looked at the person swathed in bandages across the room. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stared at the nearly unrecognizable man. He was not surprised, therefore, when the tiny woman at his side turned and buried her face against his chest with a quick sob.

Eric held her briefly, but it was only a few moments until she steeled herself to turn around and absorb the sad reality of the brilliant diagnostician. This witty, unrepentant, sarcastic bundle of energy was reduced to a shadow of his true self, and hooked to so many electrical and intravenous leads that he looked like a human junction box. There was a pillow wedged onto the mattress between his back and the bed's surface to reduce pressure on the injured shoulder. He looked awkward, as though his upper half was attempting to turn onto his left side. The crippled leg was slightly elevated and grotesquely swollen, most of it wrapped in bandages. Sadly, this tall, commanding, statuesque man also seemed small and frail, cushioned as he was in the stark white sterility of the large hospital bed.

"Oh Gregg …" Cuddy said sadly into the room that echoed with clanking medical instrumentation; "I wonder if you have another recovery left in you."

Across the room his deep voice, weak and raspy, spoke. He was awake. "Oh dear God! Rescue me! I am surely on my way to the all-consuming fires of hell. Dr. Cuddy has followed me even down here, and calls me by my first name. I _must_ be dying!"

"Dr. House?"

"Nah … I'm his evil twin. What are you two doing all the way out here in this God-forsaken patch of sidewinders and scrub-brush? No, don't tell me … you're going to drag my sorry ass back to New Jersey and force me to make up every one of my sainted brother's clinic hours! Come closer so I can see you! It's a pain in the ass to squint."

They moved in on his good side; the side upon which his vision wasn't partially blocked by bandages along the side of his face. "Hey, big guy," Foreman ventured, "what are you doing awake?"

If he'd had the strength, House would have snorted derisively. As it was, the best he could manage was a moment of clenched teeth and an over-long blink of the electric blue eyes. "They don't _know_ me very well here," he finally said. "So they think a normal dose of 'knock-out drops' is gonna put me out. Hah!"

"Dr. House, are you in much pain?" Cuddy stepped closer to his bed, and the bed's height in combination with her small stature, nearly brought them face-to-face.

"I'm riding an edge at the moment." His usual snark was not present, and she frowned. He was either still half out of it, or he was lying through his teeth. "It's like I'm walking a tight-wire between restless and screaming. Right now it's more 'restless'. Who knows … minutes from now I might be 'screaming'."

"Would you like me to adjust your morphine drip before it turns to screaming?" Foreman offered.

"No!" Cuddy warned him. "We have to call for in-house assistance!" She leaned into the side of the bed and pressed House's call button, watching helplessly as his face paled by degrees beneath her.

She longed to touch him in reassurance, but was afraid to. The "wolverine" reference from last week came to mind again, but his injuries were extensive and she had no desire to inflict added pain. The only places he was not covered in gauze were the middle of his face and the top of his curly head. The look of his elevated leg frightened her to death, and the fact that his right arm was strapped tightly to his chest was a bold statement that shouted he would not be using a cane anytime soon. He could neither use crutches, nor propel a wheelchair under his own power. He would be imprisoned in his own body, and he would positively hate it!

Hate it!

The door to House's room opened as they watched him begin to lose it. He was now gasping with the returning pain, and it was hitting him hard. Dr. Chee and House's Attending, a tall, gray-haired woman, walked in and moved quickly to the side of the bed. They heard the hiss of the hydraulics, which lowered his head toward horizontal, but the tall female doctor stopped it just short of flat. Dr. Chee, meanwhile, opened the pump's door, readjusted the morphine drip and also the drip beside it. He then relocked the door. Both cadences stepped up a couple of notches. The room grew very quiet, very alert, for an extended expanse of time.

Cuddy wasn't even aware she was holding her breath until she felt Foreman's touch on her arm. Across from them, House's face smoothed out and his eyes gradually fluttered closed as the accelerated meds took hold. Chee and the Attending watched him for a moment, their eyes moving back and forth from his face to the monitors and the BP and EKG lines. Chee wrote some notations on his clip board, showed them to his colleague, and then walked across the room to Cuddy and Foreman, as the Attending left the room again to attend to duties elsewhere.

"His drug intake has made him very tolerant of pain medications, hasn't it?" He asked. "Is he addicted to the Vicodin he takes? It is a short-term med, you know."

Cuddy and Foreman both looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up to meet the Navajo doctor's gaze. "Unfortunately," Cuddy replied, "he takes too much, too often, although he has tried other methods of pain control. He went off his meds voluntarily for a week about a year ago, and nearly went out of his head with the pain. Nothing else seems to work for him, and in order for him to do his job, he's become very dependent on the Vicodin."

"Has the problem ever caused him to threaten his patients or others in any way?"

"No. Never. His clinic patients seem to distract him when he hurts the worst, and he manages things rather well as long as his mind is occupied. He hates the way his body betrays him, and he is very intolerant of being treated as a cripple, but it has never interfered with his work."

"That's fortunate. However, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Foreman; his recent injuries are of such a severity to someone in his condition that it can't help but change the status of his disability for the worse. I'm very afraid that even the limited mobility he's had in his leg in the past, may not return. He'll not be able to bear weight for a long time, if ever. He may be limited to a wheelchair … or at the very outside, crutches, for the rest of his life. I'm very sorry …"

Beside him, Eric Foreman could feel Cuddy's breath hitch in her throat. He swallowed hard. He and House had always found themselves at odds with each other; had even had a few knock-down-drag-outs, but never would he have wished this on the man whom he'd held very privately in deep regard.

The three of them stood in awkward silence for long moments as the strong feeling of discomfort mounted. Then the door across from them opened again and broke the spell. The physician who had just left, now held the door for three other people in white scrubs, one of whom pushed a stainless steel cart on large rubber casters ahead of him.

It seemed that Dr. Wilson's and Dr. House's room transfers were about to take place. Cuddy, Foreman and Chee prepared to follow as House, oblivious to everything around him, began his journey out the door and down the hall.

"CC#2", as Chee had called it, had been scrubbed and sterilized before they got there. It was like a little circus parade coming along the second floor corridor when Dr. Gregory House's bed and accouterments came slowly out of the elevator and settled in behind Dr. James Wilson's bed and accouterments, already on its way through the hallway.

Ambulatory patients, some pushing their own IVs in front of them, some in wheelchairs; an array of housekeeping personnel with their carts full of bed linens, bleach and mops; and RNs and LPNs forced to the sides and up against the walls, watched with interest as the little procession marched by in front of them.

The process, as Dr. Chee had predicted, took a little over an hour while all the details were attended to, and both patients were placed together and settled carefully into the continuous-care room by 8:40 a.m. They were positioned with their beds beside each other, disconnected from the battery-pack carts and plugged back into all their electrical hookups thirty seconds after that. There was hardly even a miniscule interruption in the cadence of beeps. All assisting hospital personnel gathered their leftover equipment and were out the door again five minutes later. Both men had slept blissfully through the whole thing.

Thankfully!

Cuddy and Foreman stood out of the way and took it all in. This efficiency! PPTH should fare so well!

00000000

Sonny Tse was still in his office when the telephone rang insistently, long and loud. It was not an in-house call; it was transferred from the switchboard out front from an outside line.

He'd been sitting back in his chair, both feet propped up on the edge of the old desk, thinking; swirling the last dregs of his cold coffee around and around in the cup, watching the muddy residue coat the side with an oily, murky film. He was still wondering how, where and if Susan Carr fit into the scheme of things, and the more he thought about it, the more confused he became.

Early this morning, he had pulled her conference application from the file and sat staring at it. According to her profile, she was a native of Flagstaff, and had lived there all her life. Funny. If this was the case, then why in hell had she been driving a rented car? Wouldn't she own one of her own? He'd looked that up also, and the T-Bird's license and registration said it was owned by: HERTZ, based in Gallup, New Mexico. Not that far away! But Susan had claimed residence in Boston, Massachusetts.

Not so! Lie! There was no "Halle Loki Corp.", with which she'd claimed current employment, in the city of Boston. Not now, not ever. No one he'd been able to track down by phone awhile ago, had ever heard of her, and ordinarily he'd have had no reason to bother. Something was rotten in Denmark. As soon as it had turned daylight this morning, Sonny checked the area near the old corral to see if the white Thunderbird that her paperwork told him she'd been driving, had returned. It was not there.

So it _had_ been Susan driving away from the compound late last night! He'd been sure he'd recognized her facial profile in the shadows of the area light. But what in God's name had she done to her hair? She'd looked like a walking haystack! And she hadn't driven away normally; she'd literally slinked away under cover of darkness. He sighed. Some other things didn't add up either. His head hurt.

The phone rang again.

Sonny straightened in his chair and swung his feet to the floor. Reached across, picked up the receiver. "This is Dr. Tse, Madelaine … what's up?"

"Incoming call for you, Medicine Man," the receptionist said teasingly. "It's a Mr. Alexander Overmyer. Said it might be important."

Sonny frowned. "'Might be?' I don't know anyone by that name, but put him on, Please."

"Okay. Here you go." There came a series of clicks that Sonny recognized as the old phone system transferring the call from the outside line to his office.

"Hello? This is Dr. Tse. Can I help you?"

"Well," replied the male voice on the other end, "that's what I'd like to talk to you about, Doctor. Would you happen to be acquainted with a Sue Carson from Clovis, New Mexico?"

The hairs on the back of Sonny's neck perked up. Similarities abounded!

"_Sue"?_ _"Susan"?_

"I don't think so, sir. Why?"

"Okay, let me ask you this: how about a Susan Carr from over on Faulkner in Flagstaff?"

Sonny's spine straightened into rigidity. "Yeah! Her I know. What about her?" He suddenly found himself on his feet, pacing the length of the office.

The man on the phone continued. "My name is Alexander Overmyer … my friends call me 'Sandy' … and I run the 'Tu-Sandies' Motel over on Route 89 near Flagstaff. I have a woman registered here as 'Sue Carson' … but the thing is, she dropped an envelope in my office that identifies her as 'Susan Carr' … and the return address on the envelope is your hospital, Dr. Tse. It's a registration for your medical conference that was supposed to run this week … and the snapshot inside the envelope is Sue Carson with a black wig on."

Sonny shook his head, more confused than ever. "I have been wondering about that woman," he said. "And wondering! I guess you've heard by now about the trouble we had out here with some of our people being taken hostage, and two of them hurt pretty badly …"

"I certainly have," Overmyer admitted. "That's what led me to call you. It's been all over the papers, the radio and TV. "I have two doctors from New Jersey registered here at the motel right now … colleagues of the two who were hurt so badly by the ruffians that kidnapped your people."

"Ah … Dr. Foreman and Dr. Cuddy. Yes. I called them after the hostages were released and their staff doctors life-flighted to the Flagstaff Trauma Unit, and broke the bad news to them. They must have come out here on the first flight they could get. Thanks for telling me. I'll have to get in touch with them later. They'll need to pick up Dr. Wilson's and Dr. House's belongings from out here.

"But anyway, Susan Carr … or Sue Carson … or whoever she is … was here when that gang broke in and took us out into the desert. I was one of them. So were two members of my staff. Susan Carr was another who was taken. One of the idiots punched her in the face; mainly, I think, because she just couldn't keep her mouth shut … really hurt her. Did you notice whether she has a gash on her face … or a large bruise under her eye?"

There was a momentary pause before Overmyer spoke again. "Not really. I didn't take notice. She came in here at 5:00 this morning, and our conversation didn't last long. She said she'd just driven up from Phoenix, but one of my employees pointed out to me that her car was covered with red dust off the desert … and she sure didn't get that from traveling Route 17 North! I did notice that she was wearing a hellish amount of makeup though! That would hide a bruise, wouldn't it?"

"Yes it would. You said she came in there at 5:00 this morning?"

"Yes. Said she was headed east, but needed to get some sleep first. She's two units away from me right now."

"That's strange. She left the hospital … I mean here at Rez Hospital … last night about 12:30 or 1:00 a.m., and it doesn't take until 5:00 a.m. to drive to Flagstaff. So that tells me she may have stopped off somewhere for about an hour."

"I have no idea. I just thought you should know there is something strange about her, and now we've caught her in at least two lies. Maybe more. So, I'd say you have another five or six more hours to make some calls … if you think you need to check her out further."

"Mr. Overmyer … Sandy … I can't tell you how much this information helps me. You've given me food for thought, and a lot more questions I need to ask. I thank you, and I'll be in touch, probably before the day is out. And by the way … please don't say anything to this gal. She may be entirely innocent of anything, and we're barking up the wrong tree … or she could be involved in something dangerous and might retaliate if she thinks anyone has any suspicions. Just leave her alone, but if she checks out, try to take notice which way she heads … and don't let her know you have that envelope. Okay?"

"Happy to help in any way I can, Dr. Tse …"

"'Sonny'!"

"Sonny, then. And I will certainly do as you say. If she leaves, I will call you right away."

"Better call Jerry Chatto of the Navajo Tribal Police first … I'll be in touch with him … and we'll go from there."

"Okay, Sonny. Will do."

"Thanks again. I really appreciate it! Goodbye Sandy."

"'Bye, Sonny."

00000000

The shower in Room Three shut off with a squeak of the all-in-one water tap and a definitive klunk from the plumbing. Susan stood still for a moment, relishing the sensations of steam rising from her skin after ten minutes in the hot water, relaxing sore muscles from the long drive and the tension from the stupid charade of the past four days.

She hadn't bothered to get out of bed until almost 1:00 p.m., and even then she'd sat in bathrobe and slippers going over and over in her head exactly what she planned to say to that idiot, Bob McKittrick, once she had him on the line again.

The tall, handsome CEO of Soon Chang Corp., one of the biggest government-funded tech labs in the nation, was nothing but a certified ass, in Susan's opinion. She'd already been employed there as head of the clean-rooms operation for more than two years when Robert-the-Devil had come along with his beautiful hazel eyes, snow white hair and sexy southern accent.

About the only tangible thing he'd had to offer the company, besides an expensive education that placed a half-dozen capital letters after his name, and a devious mind, was his gorgeous body. And he'd certainly known how to use that! He'd wined and dined and bedded most of the women in management, and at least a third of the men. He'd had everyone eating out of his hand by the time he'd been there six months. Before that, Susan was well on her way to becoming head of the whole Operations Department. Then McKittrick had come buzzing in with his sparkling toothy smile and fake "hail-fellow-well-met" personality, and by the time she'd caught onto it, he had charmed their boss into the prestigious job ahead of her, and she'd hardly had time to catch her breath.

Before McKittrick came along, Susan had held her Asian corporate bosses in very high esteem. Michael Tan Soon and his brother-in-law, Kim Chang, had promised to be equal-opportunity employers from the day they'd arrived on American shores to take over the company.

They'd both been young and inventive and forward focused, and her qualifications had assured her of a high-profile position. She and Jose Suarez had been living together for more than three years at that time, and the added income had come in very handy. Even then Jose had been a "dirty dancer", so-to-speak, but his side jobs and excursions were neither consistent nor lucrative, and it was nice to be able to pay all their bills on time and have a few bucks left over for extras.

Then came handsome, smarmy Robert McKittrick who took the place by storm. He was a maverick, unafraid to take chances, disrespectful and patronizing to the Old Guard who were at least a generation his senior. His innovations in both product and productivity began to pay off in short order. Then came the lucrative contract with the U. S. Navy: "Project Undertow". Pretty much what the name implied: Underwater security and sabotage protection. No more danger to personnel who would ordinarily put their lives in peril patrolling underwater in wet suits; millions of dollars in savings in both manpower and materiel, and a mega-safe method of spying on one's enemies, domestic and foreign. Save the world from behind the keyboard of a computer! Foolproof!

Within a year, "Call-me-Mac!" was Susan's boss. Corporate Headquarters couldn't _not_ do it! Worst of all, he lorded it over her for the simple reason that she had always avoided his advances and told him in no uncertain terms to "keep his slimy hands to himself!"

Robert McKittrick was unused to blows like that to his fragile ego, and he made her life miserable. Susan retaliated by passing vague rumors about his "unnatural" sexuality, and soon thereafter, other women began to pass on his tawdry innuendos. Behind his back she laughed at him, but he knew where the rumors came from, and he passed a little tidbit to the brass upstairs in the boardroom that hinted she was embezzling funds. It was he who was doing the embezzling, she was certain, but it was so-o-o easy for him to lay it at Susan's doorstep.

Two months later, with circumstantial evidence bearing heavily down on her thin shoulders, Susan Carr resigned in anger and disgrace, removed her personal effects from her former office, and signed a security non-disclosure statement that was witnessed by two Admirals from the United States Navy.

Screwed!

Susan vowed to get even someday. She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that she would succeed!

Now, sitting here in this God-awful town, in this ugly, flea-bitten motel, she finally had the _means_ … and the dog-and-pony-show it would create … not only for the Soon Chang Corporation, but the whole United States Navy, and it was going to be all hers!

Susan dressed quickly in blue jeans and tee shirt and ran a comb through her thick blonde hair. She wore no jewelry, and only applied enough makeup to cover the angry bruise on the side of her face. There was very little of her real self left. All vestiges of Susan Carr, Medical Administrator and screeching female coward, were gone. She had transformed herself almost entirely into the persona of Sue Carson, entrepreneur.

She sat on the edge of the unmade bed and pulled the large tan purse to her side. Three weeks ago, Jose had presented her with a Nokia throw-away cell phone; one of those which came with a preset number of minutes built in, and you used it until those minutes were gone, then simply got rid of it. Or recycled it, though that wasn't about to happen in this case! This phone she would drop in the ocean! Or the river. Or the nearest creek. She fished it, still unused, from the depths of her purse.

"Sue" dug back into the purse then, one final time, and withdrew a top-of-the-line Sony Vaio FS-730 Laptop. She turned it and the cell phone on; logged on, entered her password, and punched in the number for their joint account in the Caymans, now solely hers, unfortunately. The phone number for Soon Chang was forever etched in her mind, and she dialed it quickly. Extension 347. McKittrick. The shit was about to hit the fan. She cleared her throat and purposely prepared to lower her voice, affecting a slight British accent for the purpose.

The phone clicked through its digital-dance dialing sequence and the phone rang at the other end. The automatic dialing system had passed her call straight through, just as she'd known it would.

"Soon Chang Corporation. McKittrick speaking."

She stifled the urge to spit at the phone when she heard the mellow, Alabama-tinged drawl on the other end. Instead, she pictured his humiliation when she offered him his own discs back … for a price.

"How would you like to purchase your slave program for the "Undertow" project?"

00000000

219


	20. Chapter 20

- Chapter 20 –

"The Bad Guys and the Good Guys"

He felt himself resurfacing, the way a diver resurfaces, coming to the top slowly to avoid a case of the bends. Even though he'd been out a long time and his body was not yet ready for any large-scale attempt at movement, he knew things were a little better. His brain was still a trifle hazy, and filled with darkness around the edges, and shadows also, like looking at the world through a giant cobweb. He couldn't tell what else might be within his immediate vicinity, although there was activity he could perceive somewhere just beyond the uncertain edge of his peripheral vision. Right now he refused to challenge his cocoon of well being by testing reluctant muscles enough to find out. He simply was not that curious!

There must have been a change in his cardiac monitors or in his breathing. A trained physician would spot the difference of returning consciousness in a heartbeat, and someone was definitely headed his way. Hmmm … "heartbeat?" He was barely awake, and already thinking in "Gregg-House-Mode". He was spending way too much time around that big lug. He had to work on finding other leisure pursuits.

He blinked. "Gregg-House-Mode" meant what, exactly? He could feel the vestiges of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth at the thought. That was all right though. He hadn't smiled in awhile. And he needed to smile. So he did. He blinked his eyes again, rapidly, trying to chase away some of the cobwebs.

Whoa! Focus jumped out at him in spades. Oblivion had given final notice.

Focus reformed quickly and he found that he was staring eyeball-to-eyeball into the jet-black stare of Eric Foreman. Lively black eyes that seemed to crinkle at the edges like a little kid with his first view of a birthday cake. The smiling black eyes opened up into a shining dark face, big whiter-than-white teeth. The biggest grin he had ever seen on the face of this man. Did it have something to do with him? And what the hell was Foreman doing here? They hadn't gone and transferred him back to New Jersey while he wasn't looking … had they?

He turned his head just a fraction of an inch to the left, testing. Sticking a toe in the water! Consciousness did not flee from him at that point, so he opened his mouth to speak. _Hi, Foreman!_ But nothing came out except a dry whisper. He tried again, and this time he found his voice.

"Shit!"

Foreman's grin widened. He had already seen Wilson's lips form the words, "Hi Foreman". He pulled back in a comic expression of indignity. "Well, if that's how you feel about it, Dr. Wilson, I'll leave."

Another face appeared suddenly beside Foreman's dark one. Female. Small. Exquisite scent. Bright blue eyes and smiling face framed by raven hair falling across her shoulders. Lisa Cuddy. "Where are we?" He managed. Surely they had flown him back east and he was at PPTH.

"Flagstaff Medical Center," she said softly. "They air-lifted you here. We almost lost you. You were hurt so badly." She touched his face with two fingers, assuring herself that he was really there. "Are you in pain?"

He shook his head, a tiny back-and-forth movement; still testing the waters. "Not … really," he said. "Riding a wave right now … haven't tried to move much either. Something feels … off, somehow. Not so much my belly, but my legs … swollen. Skin-stretched-over-bone." He frowned.

"That's because the bullet they dug out of you went pretty close to your spinal column. You may be getting a backlash from that," Foreman told him. "It will ease off in time."

"Hope so." Wilson shifted a bit under the white sheets, bringing out a wince, which passed fleetingly across his face. "Uh oh … now I know what 'gut-shot' feels like. I don't think I care for it much. Could one of you raise me up a little?"

Foreman shook his head. "We're not authorized to touch you medically, except in an emergency. But I'll call Dr. Chee or Dr. Wolfgang. You may need a change of dressings too. Okay?"

"Sure. I don't understand why you're not authorized though."

"State-to-state medical policies. This hospital is a little skittish about it. But it's no problem. We might have had to do the same with them if the situations were reversed."

"Ah. Yeah. Okay." Wilson sighed, wrapping both arms about his stomach as he did so. "How is House? Is he here? Is he hurt very badly? The last I knew, they'd beaten the hell out of him."

Cuddy's smile softened. He didn't know.

"He's right beside you. He's still unconscious. They're keeping him that way because of his condition. If they let him come out of it right now, his pain will be almost unbearable."

Wilson's eyes widened. He could not see because his body was positioned away from House. He would have to turn if he wanted to be able to look at his friend. He gathered himself to try.

"Dr. Wilson, don't!" Cuddy warned. "Wait until someone comes to take care of you. I'll ask that they turn you so you can at least see him." She reached over to press his call button.

Wide-eyed, he stared at her, tensing with the onset of sudden worry. "That bad?"

They both dropped their eyes, and he saw the truth in their expressions.

"I'm afraid so," Foreman replied.

"Oh God! They're having him sleep through the worst of the pain! History is trying to repeat itself!"

00000000

Sonny's suspicions were beginning to take on epic proportions. His conversation with Sandy Overmyer had only attested to what he already knew, and there was nothing good in the offing. Susan … Sue … whoever she was … seemed to be digging herself deeper and deeper into this mess, and she was not even present to defend herself as the evidence against her mounted, inviting even further scrutiny.

There was a picture in Sonny's mind which would not go away, and he had absolutely no reason for it to be there other than the fact that it fit so well with all his other fast-accumulating suspicions. He still had that crystal-clear image of Susan Carr bent over the body of Jose Suarez in the Chindi House, staring down at his body with the corner of the blanket lifted away from his upper body in a kind of weird ritual. What had she been seeing? Or thought she was seeing?

When he had come back inside looking for his lost Rez Hospital Commemorative Medallion, she'd been standing there with an almost wistful look on her face; not the look of anger as though she'd been wronged, but a look of … what? Regret? Longing?

Sonny hadn't thought much about it at the time, but in retrospect, he played the scene over and over again in his mind like an old kinescope movie, looping back again monotonously. What was he missing? What was it that still eluded him? If he could figure that out, there might be some reason to expound a theory. But it wouldn't come to him. It lurked there and niggled at him; teased and tickled his brain, running up and tagging him swiftly, and then skittering away again into the murky distance of oblivion, like a child's game played in the dark.

When he'd reentered the ruined Hogan, he was certain he'd seen Susan's face quickly comb itself of expression, then just as quickly reconfigure into a look of indignant anger. The transition had been fleeting, but it had not been an illusion. The movie projector in his mind kept running at the same speed with the same nuances and the same dialogue:

"'What are you doing, Susan?'"

He'd caught her at something; he was certain of it, and she'd caught herself just as quickly in return. But he'd witnessed the transformation of facial muscles. A pause.

"'I had to see the face of the bastard who did this to us!'" Their eyes had met for an instant, and he'd seen the glitter of … what? Relief? Power? She had just missed being discovered doing something she shouldn't have been doing.

Sonny thought about it again as the film loop continued to roll past his consciousness. Was there something on Suarez's person she'd been looking for? Why would she move the blanket further back beyond his face? What would she be hunting for on his body? There had to have been something in one of his pockets. But what? If only he had entered the Hogan a few seconds earlier! If only someone had thought to search his body! But search for _what_? No one had had any inkling at that time what Jose Suarez had done. No one knew he'd been an accessory to murder! No one had known about the robbery … or any of the rest of it.

The Soon Chang Corporation, as the world quickly learned from reports on TV and in the papers, was a decrypting operation and a manufacturer of computer hardware and software. Sonny was not an expert in this field, but the robbery had garnered nationwide attention. Hadn't he read something or other about the U. S. Navy being drawn into the investigation?

The entire military seemed to have closed ranks right after the story broke. He could not remember, but now he wished he'd paid closer attention. Neither Lansa nor Jeffries had given the authorities anything they could use in solving the crimes, other than the two murders, which Jeffries would probably hang for. Sonny was afraid that that was because the two men were abjectly stupid, not because they knew anything of value. Suarez was the brains behind the entire operation, and he had not chosen to share his closely guarded information with anyone!

Anyone? Except, perhaps, _Susan_?

"Oh! My God!"

Susan was the contact! She had to be. She had lifted the stolen computer-slave programs off Suarez's body and hidden them on her own person. Susan stood to gain millions of dollars, and she was very likely going to be dangerous!

Sonny Tse knew he had wasted way too much time. It might already be too late to recover the stolen articles. He picked up the telephone and spoke to Madeline Swift at the front desk. "Get me Jerry Chatto at NTP in Tuba City! Pronto!"

Jerry listened to Sonny with silent intensity, and Sonny told him where Susan was currently located, and what she had probably done. He mentioned that it would be a good idea for his men to go onto the motel property very carefully. She might be armed. And he expressed his fears for Sandy Overmyer, Tu-Sandies owner, and the man's important part in bringing the accumulation of suspicious events to a point where they could legally bring her in for questioning.

Finally, Jerry reassured Sonny that they would begin an investigation. They would see about obtaining a warrant. The NTP would be required to call in the Highway Patrol and the FBI. This was a little out of NTP's jurisdiction, and they would need the helicopters again, and probably Federal authorities in order to make an arrest. They would need the warrants, side arms, Kevlar vests and shields … that is, if the investigation turned up anything conclusive.

Within an hour, Jerry Chatto called back to Reservation Hospital and informed Sonny that their investigations had disclosed the fact that Susan Carr had been a former employee of Soon Chang, but had resigned in a flurry of cross-accusations when her seniority had been usurped.

They had their motive, and the FBI was on it!

What an over-the-top operation, just to apprehend one small-boned, screechy woman! Sonny thought. His suspicions had been correct, and things were quickly coming to a head. It was a shame. Two men had died who'd been innocent of anything except doing their jobs. Three more had lost their lives because of their greed, and two good men had been grievously injured because of it. What a tragedy!

Sonny hung up from talking to Jerry Chatto and immediately asked Madeline to ring Sandy Overmyer at Tu-Sandies Motel.

"Sandy? Sonny Tse. It's her … Susan-whoever! They're going to pick her up for questioning. Is she still there? The Feds are coming in."

"Yeah, she's still here, Sonny. Are they sending the helicopters in like they did in the desert?"

Sonny smiled. "Yeah, probably."

Sandy laughed in return. "Oooh! Adventure, danger and intrigue! Maybe I'll get my picture in the paper!"

They both laughed at that one.

00000000

Elan gave the gray mare her head, knotted the hackamore reins across her withers and let his body undulate to the comfortable rhythm of her lope. Virago felt the difference at once and shifted her lead to the left, small ears moving back-to-fore like little joy sticks, sensing, listening, feeling for the pulse of the man on her back. The two of them had been in tune for years, knowing each other, almost reading each other's minds. She served him because it was her choice, not because of any training or "obey-by-the-whip" methods. Elan never raised his voice to a horse; had never needed to. He'd inherited the gentle hands, the patience and sensitivity of his father, and animals sensed that trait within him. He was a Navajo "St. Francis of Assisi", and creatures seemed to be drawn to him just because of who he was.

Elan Atcitty had always lived a simple life. His needs were few: food, clothing, shelter,

and, of course, horses. He was a quiet, strong and gentle young man, not well educated in the white man's way, but his native intelligence served him well due to the fact that he never imposed his will on anyone or anything. He was raised with parents who loved him, and whom he loved in return, and he'd learned to insert his presence into the ways of the land and not defile its dignity to conform it to his wishes. Mother Earth liked it better that way.

All around him the desert sparkled with dancing heat mirages. Distant depressions in the desert floor looked like vast bodies of water until you drew abreast of them, then they disappeared like will-o-the-wisps. Saguaro cactus stood about, some of them leaning drunkenly like saloon cowboys shooting their six guns into the air. Small pebbles of mica along the trail sparkled like tiny diamonds.

On one of the flat, barren areas near the trail, Elan saw a sidewinder scurry along, leaving narrow tracks that looked like motorcycle tread. He saw coyotes slinking through the underbrush, and jackrabbits zigzagging away from them like furry jack-in-the-boxes. The desert was a living entity, a world unto itself. Its beauty and danger had always fascinated him. Cradled him. Fulfilled him. He was one with it.

Virago's gait was slowing now, and he could feel her front legs planting firmly as she went from a lope to a jog, then to a walk. Her head was up, nostrils flaring, and he could hear her whuffing through her nose. The mesquite and scrub brush along the side of the trail was thinning out, and signs of civilization were taking its place. They were nearing the fringe area a mile or so outside Tuba City. There were fewer critters and a smattering of humans out here; those who could not tolerate the noises of a town, but neither did they wish to be isolated on the desert.

There were some dilapidated house trailers dotted about, rusted and sagging things that had been manufactured decades before the term "mobile home" came to fashion in the mid-seventies. Some had running water piped out from town. A few had electricity; likewise. All had outhouses and tool shed-type lean-tos, and all boasted an old car or an old pickup truck parked out front. There were very few people about, most keeping themselves inside in the air-conditioned hovels where junky, noisy units hung precariously from splintered windowsills.

Beside one of the trailers, a rusted old "Detroiter", probably manufactured in the fifties, and which had once been green and white, stood an old Plymouth Cranbrook with its hood up, motor running with a sickly clacky sound. Beneath the hood, a tall Navajo dressed in white man's clothing, labored on the sticky-valved engine. The air cleaner was off and lay catawampus atop the radiator. The tall man had both arms buried to the elbows somewhere in front of the fan and its screeching fan belt.

Virago stopped dead in her tracks and swung her rear end around, reluctant to go any nearer this roaring dragon-growling-monster thing. Elan sat on her broad back and laughed deep in his throat. "If I were you, I wouldn't go near that thing either, girl," he said. He was about to press his right knee to her shoulder, guide her around and across to the other side, when the tall man straightened with a plastic bottle of motor oil in his hand. The fellow was definitely a Navajo. He had a white man's haircut, and Elan saw something vaguely familiar about the way he moved.

Hosteen Tull!

When Tavon Greene had freed the hostages in the Chindi House, Tull had never hesitated. Without a backward glance he took himself back out the hole in the wall at a run, and never looked back. Elan had watched him turn north-northeast, and figured he might be headed in the general direction of Tuba City. He remembered watching the tall figure out of sight and then shook his head at the stupidity of it. Tuba City on foot from the desert was a stretch, any way you looked at it. Elan wished the idiot good luck and promptly forgot about it. He had horses to care for, horses to talk to, and horses to help restore his peace of mind. He too, struck off into the desert. He had a purpose, however, and a destination. He did not run.

Elan Atcitty sat astride the gray mare and watched the tall man reattach the old car's air filter, reach inside the engine compartment and rev the throttle a time or two, then slam the hood down and walk toward the ratty trailer with the oil bottle in hand. Elan did not move. He sat the horse and observed the trailer with amusement.

When Tull came back out the door and walked toward the battered old car, he was followed by a raggedy woman with white stringy hair, large plastic-rimmed glasses and an arthritic gait. They were arguing. She grabbed at his clothing and gesticulated angrily up at him. He turned on her and yelled something, then turned again and strode toward the car. She was still screaming when he got in and slammed the door.

Elan straightened to attention on Virago's back.. He pulled out the hunting knife he carried in his belt and aimed it effortlessly at the driver's side front tire of the Plymouth. The rim dropped to the ground with a thud as the air rushed out. The knife, released from the dry-rotted rubber, plopped on the ground beside it.

Only then did Hosteen Tull look up with a homicidal gleam in his eyes to see Elan Atcitty sitting calmly astride a big gray mare, and watching him with an amused smile on his face. "That's my knife you got there!" The horse whisperer pointed out, aiming his index finger at the ground in front of the car.

Tull could not conceal his startlement, but he fought it down quickly and rammed the driver's door open with his shoulder, hitting the ground running, and heading for Elan as fast as he could run.

"Easy girl," Elan breathed slowly. "Easy." The mare was alarmed, but she stood her ground as the angry human rushed toward her. Elan slid down over her side easily, throwing his right leg over her withers and landing lightly on the balls of his feet. It was another move Tull did not see coming.

By the time he had rushed to the side of the big horse, her rider was no longer on her back, but crouching at her side with his arms reaching outward, ready for anything. Tull rushed headlong into the collision before he could put on the brakes, and Elan swooped, lifted, and Hosteen's own momentum carried him over Elan's head to land shoulder first in a heap, almost six feet beyond Virago's rump. Elan turned around, put his hands on his hips and just looked at Hosteen with another infuriating smile.

Hosteen scrambled back to his feet, rubbing his abused shoulder and started to make another pass at the young upstart who was making fun of him. He poised for another run.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Elan warned. "I'm younger than you … and in a lot better shape. I'm not ashamed of my heritage as you are, and I know twice as many "injun" tricks as you do."

Hosteen Tull growled deep in his throat and rushed ahead anyhow, both hands ready to grab Elan's throat in an attempt to throttle him.

Big Mistake!

Elan sidestepped easily, whirled around in a graceful arc, grabbed Tull's right arm in a swinging motion and twisted his hand savagely behind his back and all the way up to his shoulder blade. Something snapped audibly, and Tull went down on his knees with a strangled cry. Elan had broken his wrist as though it was a matchstick. The fight was over almost before it had begun.

"I think someone in town is probably looking for you," Elan suggested quietly.

A half hour later, Tull's broken wrist was wrapped with strips of dirty bed sheet and two broken slats from an old camp cot. There was a loop of clothesline rope knotted around his neck. Elan held onto the other end and mounted Virago with a sideways leap onto her back. He apologized to the old woman, who'd turned out to be Tull's Grandmother, for slashing the tire of her car. He had already retrieved his knife from the ground beside it.

He clicked a signal to Virago and she started out. Tull had no choice but to move ahead of them if he didn't want a gray mare walking up his heels. He mumbled something about having to walk all the way to Tuba City.

"That's how you got _here_," Elan observed calmly. "You might as well finish the trip the same way."

It was a hot, humiliating hike into town. The deputy at the little jail in Tuba City laughed until the tears ran when he saw the little procession come plodding down the main street and up to the curb.

Hosteen Tull was not happy to see Mark Lansa and Erik Jeffries occupying the other two cells. It was twice as humiliating when they laughed at him.

Jerry Chatto and the boys were over at the Tu-Sandies Motel, fixin' to make an arrest …

00000000

Even if you were ten years old and had never seen Law and Order, The X-Files, Walker, Texas Ranger, or NCIS in your whole life, you'd have known what was going on down at the Tu-Sandies Motel. You just had to be watching the pattern of traffic converging from all over the area in close proximity! Even a _dumb_ ten-year-old would have known.

The real-life models of every single police-type vehicle manufactured by Matchbox and Hot Wheels were parked along the side of the road on the highway overpass, or prowling around in the motel's parking lot.

There were more binoculars in use that day than Bausch and Lomb had in their online store, and enough Kevlar vests to cushion a Peterbilt-with-trailer, dropped from a 747 at 35,000 feet. Expensive Ray-Ban sunglasses adorned every pair of eyes for a half-mile radius, and every face on every man and woman assigned to the case was darkened by a dramatic frown, every brow furrowed in red alert, every pair of lips continually wetted by darting tongues.

They were ready for anything.

Inside Unit #3 of Tu-Sandies Motel, Susan Car (alias Sue Carson), played "couch-potato", watching a room makeover on the House & Garden Network, and filing her fingernails leisurely. She was in no hurry. She would not book a flight anywhere until she actually arrived at the airport. Screw Bob McKittrick! If he screamed to the authorities about being blackmailed into sending ten million bucks to a numbered account in the Caymans, it was no skin off her nose. It was better than the seventy million Jose had originally asked for … and as soon as she had talked to McKittrick, she used the throwaway phone to authorize a one-digit change in the account number. Jose had showed her how to do that too! For now, she was absorbed in the purple walls of a bedroom on the small screen … and wondering how that might look in a beach house with a cabana …

Jerry Chatto, Charlie Begay and Sammy Hawk sat in their Jeep Grand Cherokee on the highway overpass with the motor running, gazing down on the motel's roof with binoculars. Noon traffic swirled around them, buffeting the vehicle like a leaf in the wind.

Below them, on the turnoff from Route 89, four FBI agents in two dark blue Ford sedans watched through their own binoculars trained on Unit #3 of the motel. No activity visible yet.

Back at the rear of the parking lot, where tractor-trailer rigs usually stood while their drivers snoozed in the motel's quiet units, a tan Arizona Highway Patrol Chevy Impala with the star-and-sunburst shield on its door, waited. Its driver removed his "Smokey Bear" hat and placed it on the seat beside him. He lifted his binoculars tightly against sleek aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses. They were trained on the door to Unit #3.

Last, but not least, three seasoned officers from the Flagstaff Police Department waited patiently across the road in one of their department's dark brown unmarkeds. Any ten-year-old would have known it was an unmarked police car because it had no chrome, tiny hubcaps, and it screamed the "Duh" factor fact that it was _brown!_ Who in God's name, besides cops with no clue at all, drove a dark brown Ford sedan? Kid-lore snicker-bait from as far back as the 1950's! Police departments just never seemed to get it.

Two hours previously, Sandy Overmyer and his wife had notified the two daytime guests of the motel to vacate the premises due to a "police action". Then he and Sandi and Johnny Atwood quietly left from the rear door and made their way to the small coffee shop a little further down the road. Their guests, an elderly couple from Oregon, left their unit and promptly drove into town to a fashionable restaurant. The wife called a local TV station and mentioned the "police action" taking place at the motel, even as they spoke. Then, smiling, they happily gave their names and found themselves $500.00 richer.

The authorities stood at the ready; everyone poised to go in. Orders were given crisply over secured police-band radios, and outlying vehicles slowly closed the space between them.

Peace officers of all descriptions began to climb stealthily from their cars, weapons at the ready, identifying field jackets with logos, fully prominent, hats jammed firmly onto heads, a few discerning eyes peering over the tops of tinted glasses. The countdown began as they crept closer to Unit #3.

Suddenly from overhead came the clatter of rotors. Air support was arriving from somewhere. Arizona Highway Patrol! Good! A few of the local cops tilted their heads to the sky, squinting curiously. Directly above them hovered a red copter with a TV station's white call letters splashed on its sides. KTFL-TV. As they watched, another chopper joined the first. News traveled fast indeed! Black. Orange call letters heavily shadowed in white. KCFG-TV boldly printed on its fuselage.

"Son of a bitch!" Someone cursed.

"Frikkin' bastards!" Growled another. "Who in hell told _those_ SOBs about this?"

Inside Unit #3, Susan Carr (alias Sue Carson), heard the roar of the big rotors. Alarmed, she muted the TV and listened. She heard nothing but the thrum of the motors. They were flying around up there for some reason. Casually, she rose from the bed and opened the door of the unit to gaze owlishly upward into the crystal blue sky, never dreaming she was the star of the show …

She found herself staring straight into the barrels of at least a dozen … maybe more … official police hand weapons.

"You're under arrest!" Echoed from a dozen throats.

One woman. One hundred pounds, soaking wet! Unarmed … without a clue.

Busted!

"_FUCK!"_ She snarled, and slowly moved her hands into a crosswise position behind her back.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road! 

00000000

By Thursday morning they had Wilson out of bed and in a wheelchair. They would have had him walking, but his legs buckled quickly beneath him when he tried to stand. His physicians knew the weakness stemmed from the close proximity of the bullet to his spinal cord when they'd removed it from his abdomen. He was able to wiggle his toes, however, and rotate his ankles slightly, so they confirmed that he was not paralyzed. When the trauma to his body healed a little further he would regain full function and return to his former health and strength. Now, however, his eyes seemed a little sunken, and his cheeks a tad hollow from the length of time he'd lain hunched on the floor of a dusty Navajo Hogan.

Wilson had been in considerable pain at first when they weaned him from the morphine, but he rallied quickly and toughed it out with Tylenol-3. His main concern, of course, was House. They hooked his Foley and glucose IV to his wheelchair and gave him the run of the place. The activity would be quite beneficial as long as he didn't overdo it, and Cuddy and Foreman hovered near to be sure he didn't. Although he'd been transferred out of CC#2 and moved to his own room by now, he hovered by his friend's bedside most of the day, simply observing.

House was still heavily sedated and slept a great majority of the time, but Wilson remained with him almost constantly, even if allowed to do no more than listen to his friend breathe. Cuddy, Foreman, Sonny Tse, Rema Marks and Nikki Asdza were in and out twenty-four hours a day, and kept close tabs on the two rather famous doctors.

The FBI had arrested Susan Carr in her room at Tu-Sandies and quickly found the copied computer files, disguised as _Elvis_ CDs. Susan had no idea how she had been found out, and offered no resistance to authorities when they apprehended her.

A statement from Robert McKittrick at Soon Chang Corporation expressed deep gratitude for the safe return of the valuable files, and his smiling photograph appeared in editions of local newspapers, including The Arizona Daily Sun, The Arizona Republic, and the Navajo-Hopi Observer. McKittrick, however, had to share the spotlight with the manager of the Tu-Sandies Motel, Alexander Overmyer and employee Johnny Atwood. It seemed that these two had been instrumental in figuring out Carr's involvement with the Soon Chang robbery, and had alerted authorities to that fact.

Sonny Tse had grinned like a jackal when he read the article and saw the little photo. Sandy had made the front page!

Sonny's conventioneers had all left Rez Hospital to return home, but none of them held any resentment against Sonny or Nikki for events, which had been far beyond their control. Each doctor gladly agreed to return the following year for a conference that promised a little more work and a little less excitement. Two marvelous things soon happened: The Becketts, still working with the painted mustang stallion, had become fast friends with Elan Atcitty and the staff at Rez Hospital, and decided to leave Ithaca, New York and establish a practice near Flagstaff. Alan Tam also resigned his position at the Seattle, Washington hospital where he'd been employed, and joined the staff at Rez where he was welcomed with open arms.

Lisa Cuddy and Eric Foreman had to leave to return to PPTH and their positions. By Friday morning, Wilson was pronounced well enough to fly back with them, provided he would agree to the use of a wheelchair. Wilson refused.

They knew he would! Friday was the day they would begin to wean Dr. House from his unconscious state and see how he handled his return to the world. James could not be pried from his side with a crowbar, and no one argued with him.

Lisa and Eric remained in CC#2 until Gregory House decided to open his eyes and regard his surroundings from a standpoint of lucidity. When he looked up into their anxious faces and realized who they were, and why they were there, he offered a weak, pained smile.

They realized, of course, that he was not himself.

They said their goodbyes to the medics of the Flagstaff facility and stopped by Tu-Sandies Motel for their luggage. They dropped off the Ford Focus and congratulated Sandy Overmyer on his newfound celebrity status. He thanked them, and they thanked him. He called his brother-in-law who then arrived to drive them to the airport.

They reversed their incoming directions of four nights before, and flew back to Newark the following evening, holding hands on the plane and still marveling to each other that House hadn't bitched either of them out just for being there!

00000000

231


	21. Chapter 21

- Chapter 21 -

"Doctors Make Lousy Patients!"

Sometimes the light-headedness and grogginess precluded the pain, sometimes the other way around. But one or the other always dominated him, and it was difficult to perceive the difference sometimes. His shoulder was not so much painful as heavy, as though someone had him in a bear hug and wouldn't let go. He'd struggled against it a few times, but something always interfered to block him from the movement. When he tried to thrust an elbow upward to fend that off, he found that his arm wouldn't move either.

He was becoming frustrated at being restrained, and he tried threshing his head back and forth to fight it off. It did him no good whatsoever, and he was getting ready to scream for immediate release.

"House!"

What the fuck do you want? What do you want from me? 

"House! Gregory House!"

That did it! Disrespect!

No way, buster! Dammit … let me go! 

"Easy, House. Easy. Come on! Open your eyes and look at me!" The voice was soft, but demanding. Insistent.

"House! Wake up! It's me … Wilson!"

Wilson? 

His eyes snapped open. "Wilson?"

"At your service, sleepyhead." There came a murmur of soft laughter, and he struggled to focus on the impish brown-eyed gaze that sought to meet his own.

"Wilson? Really you?"

"How many times would you like me to say it?" The smiling face that coalesced gradually in front of him, was that of his best friend

"Huh?"

"Man, you're really whipped, aren't you?" The smile widened. "I haven't seen you this 'out of it' since we wierded out on Scotch and Chinese, Christmas before last."

House blinked. Wilson's face looked like it was outlined with a halo.

_Oh, no way!_

He blinked again and discovered that his friend's head was directly blocking the big bulb of a background wall light, its corona turning Wilson into some saintly apparition. He smiled slightly at the illusion as his lightheadness began to fade away. "Where am I?"

"You're here, man. With me!" Wilson could see no reason to burden his friend with too much of the truth. Gregg was still too far out in La La Land to understand what was being said to him anyway. "What does it matter? How about giving me a number!"

House scowled. Number? What was Wilson talking about? "Door Number Three?" He said groggily.

Wilson smiled and rolled his eyes, but he did not go away. His face was on a level with House's own, and it wasn't moving. "House! They're pulling you off the morphine. You need to focus and let me know your pain level. They have to adjust your meds accordingly. House? Talk to me! Stay with me!"

Pain level? Fuck! Numbers don't go that high! 

He scowled and threw out another number. "Twenty two?" He watched stupidly as Wilson's attention turned to acknowledge someone else out of his line of sight.

"He's not quite with it yet," Wilson was saying to someone.

Another face slowly moved into view by his side. Tallish. Bending over him, much higher overhead than Wilson. "Dr. House?"

She looked familiar somehow. Older female. Grayish hair. Rimless glasses … eyes that closely matched her hair. Oh yeah … Wolfgang. He was remembering her name from all the times she had tended him, checked his bandages, dressed his wounds, murmured to him soothingly the first day or so after he'd been admitted and submitted to surgery.

Her presence had faded in and out of his perception those first few days. "I'm here …"

She smiled. "Obviously … but not quite all the way!" She touched the side of his face and he noticed that her hand was quite cold. A jolt to the system! His eyes widened as he tried to focus on her. Wilson was still there as well. "Dr. House, we need a pain level to adjust your medication. Can you give us a number?"

He concentrated and attempted to scrunch up his face.

_Ow! Fuck! Oh … THAT kind of number …_

Forget that idea! He winced audibly without meaning to. Every part of him hurt like hell. His shoulder. His leg.

"Eight," he said at last. "It's not good …"

"We know, Dr. House." She withdrew and he heard her footsteps move off in the other direction. Now what?

Wilson moved closer to his side again … like he was gliding. Suddenly, House grew cold with understanding. Wheelchair!

Oh God! 

"You're in a wheelchair." He said it as a statement, not a question.

"Yeah."

"How bad did they hurt you?"

"Not that bad. I'm a lot better. It's mostly because my legs don't want to work."

"Your … legs?" Gregg's eyes widened.

"Bullet went close to the spinal cord, and they had to dig it out … like digging a sewer. Don't worry, I can move my legs."

The fear in House's eyes diminished a little. "You're sure?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"It's been known to happen."

"Yeah, but not recently. Besides, this isn't about me. It's about you."

"It's about _both_ of us!"

"Yeah it is. Your leg is really messed up …"

"I know."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I wish it could be me. You've had enough of this crap …"

"Don't! Please, Wilson … just … don't!" House turned his head away, not wanting his friend to see his face.

"Okay."

They let it rest. Neither wanted to hurt the other. They stayed close to one another though. Mutual respect. Admiration. Support.

House's pain accelerated like the cars did in a NASCAR race after the "Boogity boogity boogity!" He bit down on his lip and waited for the change in meds to take some of it away.

They had removed the bandages from his face and hands, but he could still feel the adhesive of the little butterfly strips along his jaw. It pulled some, but he doubted there would be much of a scar. His fingers were sore. Stiff. His hands, still swollen enough that moving them was a little uncomfortable, and making a fist was impossible. He stared at his left hand; the right one was still mostly tied down. It looked like it had chicken pox. Little tiny red wounds stood out all over from the splinters that had been pulled out, and the area around them was puckered as though his hand had been submerged in water for hours and hours.

His shoulder hurt mightily. There was no taming it. He had the cracked shoulder blade to contend with also. The hell of it was the fact that there was no way he'd be able to use crutches to move about, and it would take months for the shoulder to return to full strength.

His cane was no longer even in the picture, and he might as well donate it to someone who would find it of use. Even with a wheelchair, which he dreaded thinking about, he could not navigate it himself with the use of only one hand. He would need a full-time babysitter … and he would rather _die_!

The leg was a whole other story. It was fucked, and he'd known that, even when he'd been lying helpless inside the Chindi House. He'd known it when he'd dragged his ass along the ground outside. There was no way in _hell_ he could have driven the Hummer, even if the tires had not been ruined and he'd managed to haul his crippled ass upright beside it. There was also no way he could have managed to get inside it without moving the leg around more than he'd have been able to stand. The pain would have had him screaming his ass off, and the gang of cutthroats would surely have put a bullet in him long before it had actually happened.

The big painted horse had been his only possible solution, and by riding it, he'd sealed the fate of his leg. It would never support more than a small portion of his weight. Not ever again.

He had also sealed the fate of the horse. _Ol' Sidewinder … _the hero of this whole mess! That gallant animal was now buzzard-bait in the middle of the desert … a banquet for the coyotes and the scavengers. House regretted that fact most of all. The old weed eater had fulfilled his destiny well. He was a real hero.

House was aware that while he ruminated on his own fate, Wilson was sitting not far away, closely watching his friend's body language and worrying about what he might be thinking, and to what depths those thoughts might be taking him.

House wished he could speak his feelings to Wilson; confide his darkest thoughts with this most compassionate of men, but he could not bring himself to burden the injured Wilson with things he was powerless to do anything about anyway. House's thoughts were as dark and as diseased as the death of the muscle in his leg years ago. Maybe his brain needed debridement as badly as the leg …

"House?"

He looked up, sprung from his reverie cleanly by the sound of his own name. Wilson was looking at him with the concern House had already known would be there. He could not help but smile briefly at the fact that he knew the man so well.

"What?"

"Is the pain as bad as it was?"

House shook his head slightly.

_Wilson, why can't you let it the-hell alone?_

"Naw. It's letting go some."

"Good."

"How about you? Aren't you ready to go rest a little?"

"I _am_ resting!"

"Oh yeah … I can see that! Your eyes look like two piss holes in a snowbank!" A few well-thrown insults might get rid of him. Make him want to go lie down awhile. James' face was white as a sheet. "If you don't leave and go get some rest, I'm going to report your ass to your attending! Now scram!"

James stared at him sideways for a few moments. Then he sighed. "I am a little tired," he finally admitted. "You'll be all right then?"

"I'm fine."

Wilson turned the wheelchair and rolled himself out of the room and into the corridor.

House leaned back a little, avoiding pressure on the shoulder. He was still below screaming level, but not by much.

00000000

The aimless hours went slowly by.

Day followed night, followed day, until it all seemed to run together. Somewhere within the intermittent fog of the daily grind, House noticed that Wilson was now up and about on crutches, free of the IVs and the Foley, moving slowly as his belly wound began to heal and he pressed himself to make the injured spinal nerves and muscles respond to his commands. House felt himself crying inside for his friend, thinking the worst and wondering if Wilson would end up as the constant companion of a goddamned cane!

House wallowed in a constant state of restlessness, increasingly spaced out and angrily uncommunicative. He put up with the medics that grouped around his bed every time his dressings had to be changed, only because he had no other choice.

Someone had to stabilize his leg each time they changed the dressings on his back and shoulder, lest some small movement injure the limb further than it already was. They had to turn his upper body to reach the wounded shoulder, but keep the leg in a straight line at the same time. The meds they were pumping through his IVs could not possibly block the pain adequately, and his throat was often raw from trying to suppress the cries that erupted from him despite anything he tried to do to guard against it.

He was able to sit up a little more, recently, and endure a small amount of pressure on the shoulder. He no longer had to lie with a pillow wedged under his back to take his weight off the damaged shoulder blade. His butt, therefore, no longer went to sleep halfway through the night … every night. But the pain was a constant companion. Sometimes he lived through it a minute at a time. Sometimes it afforded him a modicum of peace, but never went away totally.

His hands were better. The swelling had receded to a point that he could once again see the blood vessels running across the backs of his hands, wrists and forearms. His doctors had freed his right arm from its imprisonment against his body, although the brace still supported the hurt shoulder.

When he moved his arm, however, pain spiked upward in waves, and forced him to inhale his breath in gasps. He soon learned to move it only when absolutely necessary. He exercised it by spending hours clenching and unclenching the fist, and even that small bit of motion made his muscles sing and sent electric sparks skittering up his arm.

His leg was in a category by itself. His experience on the desert had only added a few more layers to it, angering him, confusing him and giving him more cause for despair than he had ever felt before in his life. Worse than he'd ever felt after the infarction.

His foot, where the mesquite branch had gone in when the horse had been shot out from under him, presented with an infection. They X-Rayed it and found the problem. It necessitated that he go back into surgery for Dr. Chee to reopen the wound and locate the source. A tiny fragment of Mesquite wood had burrowed deep into the muscle and tissue and caused all hell to break loose. But they found it. They further injured ligaments and muscle tissue to cut it out. Now his foot was as useless as his leg, and he could not move it. He was swollen and badly bruised from heel to toes.

They could not bandage his foot. He could not endure anything that touched the sensitive area. So it lay grotesque and bare for anyone to stare at, cushioned on an additional mound of pillows. They had put on a surgical sock initially, but when he'd come out of the anesthetic, he had screamed at them: "Get it off! Get if off!"

His knee was free of Ace bandages now, but it was still sore, and the skin was black with bruising. Unlikely compensation! The already thin calf of the leg was spotted with dark bruises also. The thigh was ugly, and so painful that he would allow no one to go near it except when his shoulder bandages needed to be changed.

He cringed each time he saw them coming. The altered meds did not touch it, but he did not tell them. Most of the time he wished for oblivion and death. He spoke of this to no one. Mainly, he did not speak at all.

He did not speak to Wilson either, but kept his face averted when his friend came in to sit with him. At one point he opened his eyes to see Wilson's face bending over him, his tender brown eyes brimming. Wilson was still on crutches, just standing there, suffering his own hurts, but hurting for House even more.

God! I'm hurting him just by staying alive! I'm sorry, Jimmy … 

00000000

His physicians began to discuss transporting him back home. There seemed to be nothing more they could do for him here. His attitude was depressing, his condition digressing. Gregory House was backsliding. He refused to speak to anyone. He said nothing about his pain level. He refused to eat. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

Even James Wilson could not pull a response from him, and the strain was damaging Wilson physically as well. He'd become so unsteady on the crutches that it necessitated putting him back in a wheelchair. The sunny, smiling face was becoming dark with sadness, and his physicians began to be afraid for him as well.

The only sounds coming out of Gregory House's mouth anymore were the outcries when someone had to cradle his leg as the dressings on his shoulder were changed. House needed more than the medics at Flagstaff Med Center could give him.

Dr. Chee called Lisa Cuddy and explained the situation.

Lisa Cuddy called Sonny Tse. "Sonny, I don't know how to get my doctors home without traumatizing them more than they already are. There is no possible way they can come home on a commercial flight …"

"Whoa!" Sonny scolded. "Easy, Medicine Woman!"

She smiled into the phone. God! This man had such a "way" about him! "What?"

"I know exactly the guy to contact. You just hold on there and let me make a call. I'll call you right back!"

Cuddy stared at the phone in her hand. The line had gone dead.

Sonny Tse paged Polly Chatsworth, the other operator at the front desk, and had her dial the Soon Chang Corporation. He then asked for Robert McKittrick.

It just so happened that, yes, Soon Chang did indeed possess a corporate jet! Two, in fact: a Learjet 45 and a Learjet 60, the former, a luxury airplane with room for eight passengers. Yes indeed, seats could be removed in order to accommodate a hospital gurney and a wheelchair. There would still be room left over for a couple of passengers or so.

Oh yes! McKittrick would gladly help however he could! My God, no! There would be no charge whatsoever for use of the plane. It was the least he could do for the heroic doctors who had played such a large part in rescuing the valuable computer discs from that insane woman! The company's pilot would be most happy to make the trip!

Sonny hung up the phone, feeling a little silly, a little satisfied with himself, and a tad guilty for pouring it on like that. He would have bet a king's ransom that the saga of such a magnanimous contribution would mysteriously find its way into the newspapers and onto TV very soon. Corporate millionaires loved to leak stories like that to the media, proving without a doubt that their hearts were certainly in the right place.

Oh the generosity! Hah!

Sonny called Polly and placed another call to Lisa Cuddy. Her "boys" were coming home in style. She should have an ambulance waiting for them at the airport in Princeton by about noon, EDST. No need to travel to Newark. This plane could probably land on a football field! Oh yeah … by the way … he and Rema Marks were coming along. Just had to see what a "big city hospital" looked like.

He held the phone at arms length when Lisa squealed through the earpiece, and hung up grinning.

The plane was a beautiful Learjet 45; white with dark blue trim, a sleek twin-engine bird with near-mach capability and a need for only minimum runway space.

Early on a sunny Saturday morning in late September, a large Cadillac ambulance transported Gregory House and James Wilson, accompanied on their journey by their luggage from Rez Hospital, and MDs Rema Marks and Sonny Tse, to the airport in Flagstaff.

From there they were on their way, winging back to New Jersey.

Home.

They were coming home at last, but it was not in the way that either had intended.

00000000

240


	22. Chapter 22

- Chapter 22 –

"Home"

Sometimes the sounds you _don't_ make are the loudest of all. And no one was more familiar with this contradictory concept than James Wilson.

Ill and sick at heart, he sat beside Gregory House as the sleek Learjet winged its way east to Princeton, New Jersey and Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. They'd had to remove most of the plane's seats in order to accommodate Gregg's gurney with its IV ports and the support for his shoulder, plus the strange apparatus to hold his leg steady.

Gregg was awake, in pain and still uncommunicative, and Wilson knew most of this stemmed from his humiliation at having to be waited on hand and foot, unable to attend to even his most basic needs by himself. James would have liked to be able to touch his friend, offer encouragement, support; even start some kind of silly argument to get House to come around and even snarl at him in anger. But he held himself back out of respect for the man beside him, and did none of these things because he knew House needed to be left alone right now, or however long "right now" took.

These past few weeks, House had had no private office in which he could hole up, hide away from the outside world and lick his wounds at his own pace; no opportunity to hold off curious and sympathetic stares from those he did not wish to speak to, and no freedom from the solitary confinement of his own body.

He was not able to set out along the corridors of a sterile hospital environment and stretch his limbs to the limits of their capacity in order to maintain as much physical mobility as was humanly possible for him to bear.

House was afraid, Wilson knew; deathly afraid of what his future might hold, and what he might or might not be capable of accomplishing down the line when he would return home, even more crippled and alone than he'd ever been before, to the luxury apartment on East Side Drive.

A full recovery would not happen for House this time, and the fear of life on crutches with no available hands, or in a wheelchair with a permanent attendant to cook, clean, do laundry and even remain available to wipe his ass for him when needed, remained a constant storm on the horizon.

Wilson was keenly aware of all these things, and he knew he must somehow coerce Gregg into talking about them. Here and now, however, was not the time or the place to pressure him. So instead he sat in his wheelchair, enduring the small spikes of pain that rippled along his spine, and the nagging ache in his still-healing belly.

Sadly, he maintained a constant vigil on this haunted, silent figure with its heavily bearded face turned toward the opposite bulkhead and trying his best to shut out the reality of everything around him.

Behind them, Sonny Tse and Rema Marks sat together in the pair of seats, which remained attached to the plane's cabin floor. From time to time they would speak in hushed tones, but neither made any move to bother the two men up front. Wilson could feel their eyes shift forward now and then, but they kept their distance in the hope that Wilson might be successful in drawing House up and out of his state of depression and funk.

It didn't happen. Gregg dozed, off and on, but even in a drugged sleep, his face still twisted with pain, his fists clenching at his sides. After an hour or so, Wilson rolled his chair closer to the gurney, applied the brakes to the big wheels, and curled both arms around the corner of the large pillow beneath Gregg's head. Wilson lowered his own head gently near the damp, curly one beside him. He expected the motion to start up the pain in his back again, or the fire in his gut, but it didn't. The shift in position seemed to help to some extent, and after awhile he too fell asleep there.

The change in the plane's altitude brought Gregory House out of a light sleep when his ears began to pop and the pain in his leg inched upward. For a moment he felt a disorientation, not certain where he was.

The sea of beige punctuated with little round windows was unfamiliar and disturbing. Then he remembered he was on his way home. They must be close, the plane descending. He turned his head slightly on the pillow to determine the status of those accompanying him, and his temple encountered a mound of softness. He shifted his position again to look, and discovered Wilson's face near his own. Their heads were almost touching.

The younger man's eyes were closed in restless sleep. The youthful face had added a few extra years, with lines of pain and worry etched about his mouth and eyes. His hands were relaxed for the moment with the fingers curled toward his palms as they wrapped around Gregg's pillow; at least House supposed they were. He could only see the right one which lay very close to his stubbled jaw.

House looked again into the countenance so full of sadness, and studied the tangle of auburn forelock that tumbled over Wilson's eyebrows, almost to the bridge of his nose. Gregg studied the face with wonder. He could not help himself. Kind, loyal Wilson, forever and always right there.

Nothing could chase Wilson away, short of a boxcar full of TNT. Even the Great Wall of China couldn't have held him off. He would have found a way to crawl over it. With effort, Gregg House lifted his left arm across his upper body and placed his curved palm gently on top of Wilson's moppy head.

"Hey … buckaroo …"

The brown eyes opened gradually, and the two of them were eyeball to eyeball. House said nothing further, just kept looking.

Again, the things he _didn't_ say spoke louder than words. Wilson smiled. He did not move, just relaxed into the simple joy of having his friend back. Finally he sighed.

"What, exactly," he said softly, "did you want _now_? I was _trying_ to sleep …"

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The Navajo Reservation Hospital in Arizona slowly went back to normal.

Almost!

The worker bees on each shift toiled round-the-clock to spruce up the main dining room, the big kitchen and all the rooms upstairs where their guests had stayed for the short duration of the aborted medical conference.

One strange incident happened while they were cleaning the rooms on the third floor. In the room off the mezzanine, two twenty-something women were gathering sheets and pillowcases, straightening furniture and running a vacuum cleaner, when one of them gave a blood-curdling scream that could be heard down the elevator shaft and all the way to the front lobby.

Nikki Asdza and two other women under her supervision went running to the room in question and found both girls hanging in the open doorway staring in alarm at a dark shape in the gloom, directly across from them. One of them held a broom in her hands, and the other a metal vacuum cleaner pipe extension. Both brandished their weapons in front of themselves like gladiators fending off lions.

"There's a wild animal in there!" One woman exclaimed.

"It's a skunk!" The other chimed.

Nikki pulled a face and glared at them. She doubted it was a skunk, but there was indeed a ball of dark fur gathered upon itself, perhaps frightened at all the fuss and backed into a corner across the room. She reached for the broom in one girl's hands and advanced into the open space.

"Be careful!" The other one screamed.

"Turn on the overhead light!" Nikki told her.

When the dim bulb lifted some of the enclosing gloom, Nikki advanced slowly with the broom held in front of her. The creature was still there, unmoving, in a heap on the floor. "Whatever it is," she said, "I think it's dead. It's not moving." She ventured closer, reached out the broom and poked the thing. It had no substance, no bones, and no muscle.

"What the hell?" Suddenly Nikki was groaning in embarrassment. She dipped down with the broom handle and slid it under the black ball of fur. Lifted it up, turned on her heel and walked back to the four startled women. All four of them screamed bloody murder.

Nikki laughed and held up the "animal". It was a long, tangled black wig, discarded there by its owner who probably couldn't have cared less that she was leaving it behind.

After that incident, word got around that Dr. Asdza had dispatched a vicious "creature" from the bedroom at the third floor mezzanine.

The cleanup proceeded with dispatch after that. There were four very embarrassed women doing cleanup duty for the rest of the week.

Nola and Oscar were workers. They came up with an idea; an ambitious project they decided could be, if not completed, then well underway before Sonny and Rema returned from New Jersey in a few days. For good measure, they ran it by Nikki Asdza who was more than ready to venture in another direction. She thought about it awhile, and then gave her blessing. She had only one question: "Where will you get the manpower? Too bad all our conventioneers went home. Some of them might have enjoyed it."

"We have everyone on the Reservation to give us a hand," she said. "We did it before, remember? That's how Sonny got this hospital going in the first place. Why can't we put out the word and let people show up to help when they have the time?"

Nikki smiled. Why indeed? She nodded. "So put the word out there! What are you waiting for?" 

Later that same evening, their first volunteers showed up with brooms, shovels, rakes, scrub brushes, buckets, mops, bleach and detergent. They showed up with their sleeves rolled to their elbows, and they showed up ready to dig in. They showed up with their husbands and wives, their kids, and their uncles and aunts and cousins.

The abandoned, filthy, junk-laden rooms deep in the "Bad Guys Wing", as they soon began to call it, needed to be cleared out and cleaned up so they could be put to much better use.

The first shift of volunteers worked all night. In the morning, one room had been cleared, and boxes, bags and trunks full of discarded junk hauled to the corner of the dining room where the pile soon began to take on epic proportions.

Their inventory was awesome. There were old electrical parts still in their original boxes. There were plumbing fixtures, some predating World War I. They found fifty years worth of old Readers Digests packed in wax-lined cartons and preserved in like-new condition. They uncovered old tools, most of which were unidentifiable; boxes and boxes of screws, bolts, nails, insulated staples. There were hoof picks, curry combs and bits of rotted leather harness.

And they found a box full of breakaway brass locks for the ancient fire system. Exactly like the one destroyed by the "bad guys" when they broke in through the damaged side door.

They dragged the great majority of junk to the barn where they found Elan Atcitty hand feeding the painted mustang and wiping him down with a damp rag. Some of them stopped to talk with Elan and marvel at the fact that the horse was becoming more alert, moving around a bit now, and recovering very nicely.

Some of them walked up to the animal and talked to him, sank their fingers into his heavy mane, patted the front of his long face and stroked their fingers delightedly upon his silky muzzle.

Ol' Sidewinder (only Elan called him "Spirit Wind" anymore) lapped up all the attention he could get, and nickered after them piteously when they had to leave in time to pass instructions to the group waiting to relieve them for day shift.

By the time Sonny and Rema returned from New Jersey, this place would take on a whole new look.

They had no idea!

00000000

Wilson talked Cuddy out of admitting him. Actually, it wasn't that hard. "You're going to insist that I spend valuable time sitting in a hospital bed when I can help monitor House? And this is going to benefit both of us … how?"

"Dr. Wilson, unfortunately, I don't have time to stand here and debate the issue with you. You're only half healed and your legs still don't want to hold you up. I'd say that's a good enough reason to admit you for further observation.

"You've been around House too long. You're developing a stubborn streak that's beginning to rival his, and I refuse to be responsible for the consequences. Right now I need to get him settled into a room and get his meds stabilized so his pain doesn't drive him through the roof. If you'd like to go up there and hold his hand … fine!"

Wilson snapped his head up in question, but she was evidently using a little sarcasm of her own. "Well, I'll be going then." He began to turn the chair to leave, but she stopped him in his tracks.

"Dr. Wilson!"

He swung around to face her, impatience written all over his face. "What?"

Her voice softened for a moment. "Don't, under any circumstances, let me catch you out of that wheelchair! No crutches, not yet. I mean it. You started to use them too soon, and to be perfectly truthful, I don't think I could cope with both of you flat on your backs."

He grinned and resumed his outward momentum. "Promise!" The word was flung back over his shoulder as he gained speed wheeling out of the room.

Cuddy stared after him, shaking her head and looking across from Sonny Tse to Rema Marks in exasperation. "I just can't understand how in heaven's name he learned to manipulate a wheelchair so well in so short a time …"

"He's highly motivated," Sonny mumbled under his breath.

Cuddy said, "What?"

He smiled. "Nothing."

It had taken four strong men to maneuver Gregg House's heavy-duty gurney out of the Learjet without jarring him to the point that he cried out in pain.

Sonny Tse, Ron, the Lear's pilot, and the two ambulance attendants who'd arrived in the luxury Cadillac to transport him to PPTH, each took hold of a corner. They had to lower the sling and settle his leg to the flat surface of the bed in order to have enough room to clear the overhead door, but the transfer went without incident, and they managed not to hurt him in the transition. James Wilson sat in his wheelchair nervously, watching the cautious maneuvering, and holding his breath.

There was not enough room in the ambulance for the wheelchair also, so James rode to the hospital in the airport's own chauffeured Jeep Commander SUV, the chair collapsed in the back. Closely flanked by Sonny and Rema, Wilson rode the distance easily.

"How are you doing, Jimmy?" Sonny asked. "Are you in any pain?"

James smiled at his Navajo friend and shook his head in the negative. "Not so much pain as tired," he replied. "The thing that concerns me most is that I'm beginning to understand what House goes through every day of his life. It's awful, and I'm not certain I could even begin to cope with it the way he does. And now …" Wilson's voice hitched for a moment, "… it's going to be even worse."

Rema pressed a compassionate hand to his cheek. "Sweet Jimmy," she said affectionately. "You boys didn't ask for any of this …"

Wilson shook his head and snorted softly through his nose. "It wasn't exactly on our agenda," he admitted sadly. "I can't even describe how I feel about what happened to House out there. My God, he can't begin to ride a horse! But he did it! He did it to try to get help for the rest of us, and I'm still in awe of the courage it had to take for him to even try.

"He almost made it. And the rotten bastards shot him! They shot him in the back! They shot a disabled man in the goddamn _back!"_

Wilson's head went forward and his chin dropped to his chest. It was increasingly difficult to control his emotions lately, and when Rema reached up her arms to enfold him in a gentle embrace, he felt himself losing it, his body trembling with sorrow into her shoulder …

And now he was rolling into House's room.

Gregg was awake, watching as a team of nurses reattached his leg support to a system of ceiling pulleys and gently raised it upward until it was about six inches off the surface of the bed. "Hey House!" James greeted, rolling himself over to park near his friend's left side.

"Hey Wilson!" House answered. "Think we could get a couple 'Naughty Nurses' DVDs for tonight?"

At the head of his bed, one of the nurses reattached his IVs and monitors into their respective ports and checked the bandages on his shoulder, at the same time rolling her eyes. The other young woman took her time adjusting his blankets and straightening his pillows. She did not comment.

"Might, maybe," Wilson replied. "Maybe Nancy here could stop by Blockbuster and pick us up some good stuff. Right, Nance?"

The young woman turned around and smiled. "Right, Dr. Wilson. You know, we all heard what happened to you guys. I'm really sorry, and I hope you both get better soon." She centered on Wilson, scanning his wheelchair and the crutches attached to the back. "Depending on the circumstances," she teased, "I've heard crutches can be really sexy!"

On the bed, House's blue eyes turned on her and shot electric sparks. "Oh, they're sexy! Especially when you're screaming your head off from the pain and wondering if you'll ever be able to walk again!"

Ten seconds later, both nurses found other areas of the hospital that needed their attention.

"That was a little … harsh … wasn't it?"

"Not harsh enough!" House growled.

"Jimmy?"

Their attention was drawn to the hallway door, and the speaker, a pretty blonde in charcoal slacks and white sweater.

"Hello, Julie," Wilson said softly. He glanced at House from the corners of his eyes, and then wheeled himself around the bed and across the room to greet his wife.

00000000

Nola VanDrokian and Oscar Ramarez set their empty coffee cups on the dining room table and looked across at each other. Old friends and fellow employees, not only here at Rez Hospital, but many years before when they'd both worked at the Reservation School in Tuba City, they shared inside jokes, hospital gossip and a love of NASCAR and the NFL.

Nola was a fan of the Oakland Raiders and the cute driver of the #8 Budweiser car, Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

Oscar rooted for the Dallas Cowboys, calling the Raiders "The Legion of Old Men". He also called Junior Earnhardt a "Wuss", preferring the young hardhead, Kevin Harvick in the #29 Goodwrench Chevy.

Both of them delighted in driving their coworkers up the walls with arguments about football and auto racing, and anything else they could come up with that might constitute a lively debate.

Today, however, they were a little too quiet, a little too locked up within their own thoughts, and truth be told, even in silence they still tended to find a sense of competition. It was Oscar who got the ball rolling this time.

"Y'know, woman, I've been thinking …"

Across the table, Nola rolled her eyes as only Nola could. She planted a beefy elbow on the table and glared over at his bespectacled face. "Yeah, man, me too."

"If you tell me what you're thinking, I'll tell you what I'm thinking." Oscar offered casually.

"Huh uh," she said. "You first!"

"You!"

"No, you!"

"Let's do the basement!"

"That's what I was thinking!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! We got enough people working on those back rooms to have them finished by the time Sonny and Rema get back. So let's _us_ find something different!"

"You're on!"

"How about taking our coffee cups to the kitchen then …"

"You! I'm going to hunt up a couple of flashlights, some gloves and some trash bags."

"Oh, okay. I'll meet you over by the steps."

"Okay." They both got up and temporarily went their separate ways.

The cellar steps below the first floor, were solid as rock. Built from locust wood sometime during the Civil War, they were a tad narrow, but strong and well constructed. The light bulbs down there were dim and caked with dust, rendering them even dimmer. The floor was bare red clay, the walls red clay also, but reinforced with intricate layers of desert slate fitted together almost as well as the Egyptians had fitted the Pyramids.

Dust and dirt were everywhere, but they were a tad disappointed that there was little or no junk piled about. What _was_ there had been stacked against the walls in orderly fashion, and nothing lay scattered about. They checked into some of the old wooden boxes, but found nothing but more antique tools, old tap and dye sets, ancient lengths of lumber and what looked like miles and miles of empty wooden shelves.

In the room behind this one, they stumbled upon the antique fire system, completely useless. There were two riser houses containing two risers each, and they had probably at one time protected this old building very well in the event of a fire. Now the riser plates lay unsealed, hanging from their chains, their nuts and bolts scattered on wooden tables, the rubber gaskets withered and cracked from years of dry rot. The air gauges all pointed to zero, and the four OS&Y valves were turned all the way off, their wheels corroded and rusty. Many of the overhead water pipes were missing, their threaded ends thrust outward like rusty, gaping metal mouths.

Nola and Oscar were beginning to feel a little disappointed. They moved on to the last room, the one that was located beneath the kitchen and dining room. The entire area was completely bare, except for a very old overstuffed chair, which stood across the glaringly empty space, up against the opposite wall. They turned around and started to leave.

"Wait a minute!" Oscar played his flashlight's narrow beam across the wall behind the chair. There was a slight delineation in the wall where the back of the chair was pushed up against it. Small indeed, and barely noticeable, but it was there.

"Does that look like a doorway to you?"

00000000

Allison Cameron and Robert Chase were duly impressed with the tall Navajo physician, Sonny Tse, and the tiny smiling Oncologist, Rema Marks. Sonny was indeed impressive with his dark good looks and the long sleek straight black hair that cascaded about his face when he moved. His innate grace had the appreciative Cameron looking him up and down brazenly. Cuddy, amused, stood back and watched the young woman's eyes grow wide when she stood beside him. He was at least as tall as House, and endowed with the sleek body of an athlete. House appeared frail in comparison.

Chase was full of questions about the reservation and the people who lived there. As a child, the only education he'd ever received about the American Southwest, came in the form of old Cisco Kid, and Gunsmoke, "cowboys and Indians" on black and white television, and a few episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger. Anything else had been too bland to consider.

Sonny was happy to describe his home, his people, his status as Navajo Medicine Man and Singer, and talk endlessly about Rez Hospital and his diverse staff. He told them about the robbery and the fleeing gang members who had taken them hostage, and he impressed upon them the heroism of Dr. Wilson and Dr. House, both of whom had been severely injured at the hands of those cruel men. He told them about House's courageous ride into the desert in an attempt to bring help, and his consequent injuries as a result.

He halted his words abruptly when he looked across at Cameron's pretty face and saw that she was crying. "I'm so sorry," he apologized. "I know these men are your good friends, and for me to describe their ordeal, blow-by-blow, has been thoughtless of me. You haven't been in to visit either of them yet, have you?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She'd heard all about how badly House was hurt, and the chance that he might not walk again. She didn't know if she would be able to face him without breaking down, and at the moment she didn't want to try.

Sweet, gentle, iron-willed Dr. Wilson in a wheelchair or on crutches presented an appalling image also. These facts brought all her own pain to the point where her fantasies about the crippled, courageous, pain-ridden House and her ongoing mission to

make him "all better" lay crumbled at her feet.

When she looked up, the others were staring at her curiously, and there was no indication of sympathy for _her_ hurt, _her_ pain. Allison daubed at her eyes with a Kleenex and pulled herself together.

Lisa Cuddy turned to Sonny and Rema. "How would you both like the fifty-cent tour of this place? I can show you some of our facilities, maybe give you a few ideas for Rez Hospital, and talk to Dr. Wilson about an idea he has for a fundraiser for you … and then go to lunch and perhaps visit Dr. House."

They nodded, willing to move past the strong emotion of the past few minutes. Lisa turned to the two younger doctors and spoke in friendly low tones. "I'm sure both Dr. Chase and Dr. Cameron have many duties awaiting them … don't you?" Her blue eyes were not _quite_ stabbing them in the heart, but they were coming close. Both youngsters excused themselves quickly, then turned and hurried off.

First stop, Orthopedics, the stronghold of Dr. Norman Lyons, House's bald, freckled, bespectacled nemesis. She pointed down the corridor to the left and took off in the lead. This was her hospital. She was very proud of it and its accomplishments. She was going to be very sure her visitors agreed.

She hoped they would run into Eric somewhere.

00000000

Dr. House was groggy and sedated. His leg and foot felt like they were on fire, and his leg began to go into spasm just as a pair of nurses got there. A vial of Norflex had stopped it in its tracks and the conflagration had tamed, although there was still a bed of live embers that flared upward intermittently.

The shoulder, surprisingly, did not bother him too much, and he was experiencing some itching beneath his shoulder blade, so the healing process was taking place as predicted.

Was it two weeks now? Or three? He wasn't even sure what day it was anymore. His surgery could have been a month ago, or yesterday. It didn't matter. The nurses had changed his bandages and raised the level of his leg after the spasm tamed down.

That was just after he'd watched Wilson leave with Julie, and he'd experienced the lonely feeling of abandonment for a moment when he saw her commandeer his wheelchair into the corridor.

Wilson had said once that his marriage "sucked". He'd looked back over his shoulder in brief apology as she pushed him out the door, though he seemed genuinely glad to see his wife. Either way, House had no reason to protest, and no right to say one fucking word about it. But he'd laid and stared at the wall for a long time afterward when the nurses had fluffed his pillows and left him alone again.

He listened to the rhythm of his monitors and flexed his hands to keep the sore fingers loose. The swelling was gone now, his hands getting back to normal. The one with the restricted movement from being strapped to his chest, still pulled a little when he attempted to rotate the wrist, and found that it would only turn so far before slamming into the strapping in one direction and the wall of his chest in the other. He wondered how long it would take to get the shoulder loose and free again, out of the restraints and back to normal strength so he might be able to try walking with crutches.

Funny. He had hated crutches! Hated them! When he'd been in rehab before and had to learn to use them for the first time in his life, they'd played hell with his balance, played hell with his equilibrium, played hell with his sense of direction. He'd spent too much time watching his feet and not enough time watching where he was going.

House sighed, trying to relax, eyes straying to the ceiling again, focusing on the little metal tracks that surrounded the bed and held up the little ball bearings that attached the privacy curtain up there. Wow! Humans were inventive creatures. Who knew that little tiny metal tracks would surround a trillion little shiny ball bearings that would hold up a long lime-green privacy curtain that would keep a patient's naked ass from giving an eyeful to every moron who happened to walk by in the corridor?

"Hey Boss … you awake?"

House blinked. The voice from the doorway was so deep, so familiar, and so welcome. He turned his head the other way and lowered his gaze from the ceiling to the door. A tall, handsome black man dressed in green scrubs, stood with one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, one leg crossed casually over the other, staring at him with an expression that said he was very happy to see him in one piece.

Billy Travis also wore a wide smile filled with strong white teeth, and his lively gaze looked Gregg straight in the eyes. The man shook his head slightly in disbelief, and colorful beaded braids swung gaily. He stepped away from the doorway then, and moved across the room.

Gregg smiled. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other. The big guy couldn't have appeared at a better time. "Billy!"

"Yeah, man! Jesus! This sucks, Gregg … bigtime!"

Travis didn't stand nervously by Gregg's bedside, didn't hang his head or look away from the destroyed leg, and didn't flinch back at sight of the long pink scar down the edge of his friend's face.

He walked straight up and enfolded Gregg House's left hand between both of his own and squeezed gently. "What the hell are you gonna do to yourself next, Bossman? I can't stand much more of this." He leaned over the bed and pressed his lips gently to Gregg's forehead. "I can't let you alone for ten minutes without you going out on a freakin' desert somewhere and get shot in the back playin' Cowboys an' Indians!"

"That wasn't the plan at the time, Billy," House said. "Trust me!"

"Oh, I do! _You_ trust _me_! So how bad have you done up your leg this time? The first time, if I remember correctly, it took you and me and your Mom and Jimmy to get you back again. Will you walk again this time? Or are you gonna have to ride around in a goddamn 'Jazzy' the rest of your life?"

Gregg frowned. This guy could get away with remarks with him that even Wilson shied away from. "You certainly believe in telling the truth, don't you?"

Billy nodded. "Yeah! And you know why that is, right?"

Gregg nodded dumbly.

"Sure you do. I do it because I love the hell out of you, and you know it! I certainly hope you're not going to lay around and sulk and hide from people and be a general pain in the ass the way you were the last time … are you?"

"Not with _you_ looking over my shoulder, I'm not!"

"That's good. I approve." Billy stole a quick glance at his watch. "I've got a couple of ortho patients I need to see … oh yeah … and I'll tell Norm Lyons you said 'hello'. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from you. Now, I really gotta get going. I'll stop back to see you from time to time. Assuming you'll still _be_ here?"

Gregg grinned, the first in a long time. "Go fuck yourself, Billy!"

"Damn! It's nice to be loved! Tell Jimmy I said 'hi' … and I'll see him soon."

Billy waved from the doorway, and then was gone.

Gregory House felt a little better. At least in his mind.

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	23. Chapter 23

- Chapter 23 –

"Serendipity "

They moved the chair and looked behind it. There was, indeed, a door. There was no doorknob, no handle. Someone had gone to great pains to conceal it, never mind the fact that no human being had visited this basement in an uncounted procession of years.

Their curiosity whetted, and further motivated by new determination, Nola and Oscar ransacked a wooden box of old tools from the first room that opened at the bottom of the basement stairs. Then, armed with a corroded ball-peen hammer and two battered wood-handled screwdrivers, they attacked the grime-packed edge of the doorframe. It was slow going. Grit had settled thickly into the spaces where the door met the wall, and it took ten minutes of pounding, prying and cursing before they finally felt it give far enough to fit their fingers inside to jimmy the thing outward.

The door moved stiffly, screeching like a tortured rat, as they leaned into it to force it all the way open and further back against the wall. It was dark inside. Musty: the odor of long abandonment. They hung in the entrance, only their heads and shoulders poking inside. God only knew what they would find in there after all this time. They aimed their flashlights into the inky blackness and were astounded when the light beams revealed a furnished room beneath layers of accumulated dust. They looked at each other for a moment, and found reason to laugh out loud at their original feelings of trepidation.

"What the hell _is_ this?" Oscar muttered, beaming his light around at old furniture; a desk and chair, a table with another chair, an old cot much like those on the wards, cabinets on the walls and base units beneath. There was an old platform rocker in one corner, half covered by an old blanket, and beside it an end table scattered with what looked like an accumulation of spiral-bound notebooks. There were maps tacked to the walls, and hand-drawn prints of what could only be meticulous renderings of the old building, now Rez Hospital, including nooks and crannies that, very probably, no one had ever seen before. An old refrigerator stood against a far wall with its door hanging open dismally, and beside it a table with a hot plate. There were two floor lamps and an overhead light, none of which … _surprise_ … worked.

The room held an eerie possibility of secrecy … research being done by one, as-yet- unknown person, in dark privacy, taking great precautions to avoid discovery. Nola turned to Oscar and frowned, puzzled. "Stay put!" She said. "I'm going back upstairs for some light bulbs. I think we need to find out what this place was."

Oscar nodded agreement. "Okay, go ahead. I'll poke around a little more until you get back."

"'Kay." She turned and disappeared back to the outer basement, footfalls echoing off the bare walls.

There was nothing wrong with the old electrical connections. They replaced all three lights with 100-watt bulbs and flipped the switches. Light flooded the murky corners of the room and they stood still, slack-jawed, looking around.

There was a shower stall behind a tattered curtain, far beyond the range of their flashlight beams, but which was evident beneath the glare of electric lights. Beside it, an old toilet sat hunched all alone with dirty black rings darkening the bowl. To the right of that was a sink; not a lavatory, but a full-sized kitchen sink, fashioned of very old porcelain and consisting of a single molded piece with drainboard attached. Ugh! The kitchen sink was alongside the toilet, and both looked like they weighed a thousand pounds. An old metal dish drainer stood on the drainboard, and inside it, an ancient coffee mug was turned upside down. These pieces hadn't seen running water in fifty years. At least!

Cabinets along the walls were mostly empty, although there were still two or three dinner plates, another coffee mug to match the one on the drain. There was one old pot, one old pan and a few pieces of antique cutlery with the patina worn off.

The desk, however, was an embarrassment of riches. The drawers were filled with spiral notebooks like the ones on the end table, and each had a number on the front cover. When they counted them all, there was a total of twenty-three.

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His name had been Fenton Koury, and he had worked as a janitor and maintenance man for the U. S. Army, beginning in 1939, and lasting far beyond the war years. These tiny rooms had served as his home until the late 1960's.

Koury had been a private man, a loner. He was more than content with his solitary existence, and he had had a very interesting hobby. He was also a confident person with a strange penchant for making things disappear. The thing he liked to make disappear most … was other people's money!

According to the odd ramblings in the twenty-three notebooks, he had indeed made a _lot_ of it disappear, and none of his ill-gotten gain had ever been recovered. Some of it, not even missed by those from whom it had interestingly departed.

His notebooks, however, revealed exactly where every cent could be found. It was all very easily accessible and scattered throughout the entire, huge old basement. His ongoing chronicle of acquisition was a truly amazing piece of work.

Nola and Oscar sat down to read, and at the end of the evening, found that they had completely lost themselves in the fragile, brittle pages of the old notebooks. It was not that Koury's handwriting was difficult to read; on the contrary, his had been a charmed existence, described in detail in a neat, stilted hand, and he seemed to have written it out on an almost day-to-day basis over a span of seven or eight years.

Fenton Koury had been born near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania in 1909. He had attended Harrisburg public schools, graduated in the top third of his class, and began his higher education at what was then called Pennsylvania State College. In his sophomore year he grew weary of what he called "cavalier attitudes" of the faculty and their teaching methods, and withdrew in a state of profound boredom to strike out on his own.

Koury's wanderings led him from job to job and state to state, always learning valuable lessons from life's rich cauldron and applying those things he learned to a mounting skepticism of his fellow human beings.

"People are stupid!" he'd proclaimed on one page of Journel #4. "People stand there and beg to be taken advantage of, and are not aware of it, even when it is happening to them right before their eyes."

Thus he boasted of his first theft of more than $15,000 from an old entrepreneur who thought he was taking advantage of an idiot by purchasing a rare Monet masterpiece for next to (his words) "next to nothing". _Wrong!_ Fenton had inserted a cheap imitation into an ornate and expensive frame, and for all Koury knew at the time of the writing, the "entrepreneur" still had the fake displayed in the entrance hall of his elaborate home.

During his dazzling career, Fenton Koury had bilked millions and millions of dollars from unsuspecting idiots all over the United States of America. He had sold non-existent race horses to unsuspecting breeders in Kentucky and Tennessee, sold tracts of land to speculators, which turned out to be located at the bottom of one of the Finger Lakes in Upper New York State, and bilked wealth-seeking investors with a "can't-miss" invention of a method of running automobiles on water by adding a "high octane" pill to the gas tank. At the time, so few people had ever heard the words: "high octane", that the scam sounded plausible and convincing, especially when rolling off the silver-tipped tongue of young Koury.

Eager gentlemen with dreams of easy wealth scurried to empty their pockets into the outstretched hands of the man who promised them at least a two-hundred-per-cent return on their investments. Koury covered his tracks with clever manipulation and moved on, with alacrity, to new spoils.

By 1940, at the age of thirty-one, Fenton Koury grew tired of wandering. He had been lucky so far, but one of these days, someone would figure out his schemes and it would spell the end to his long trail of misdeeds.

Not wishing to spend the remainder of his life on the rock pile of some prison, Koury looked for a place to settle down and make some honest investments. It so happened that the U. S. Army was looking for an all-around civilian jack-of-all trades to serve as grounds keeper, maintenance man, janitor, handyman to live on-site at their parts-depot warehouse complex at the edge of the Sonoran desert in Arizona.

Fenton had never been that far west before, and the isolation appealed to him in a kind of perverse manner. He applied for the job by mail and was granted an interview. His smooth-talking manner and happy-go-lucky demeanor got him the job immediately. He'd already known it would, and he had come west with all his worldly possessions in tow in a 1936 Chevrolet. A large trunk in the back held more than four million dollars.

Fenton took over as guardian of the Depot called, misleadingly: "U. S. Army Navajo Wells Munitions and General Supply Depot". It was located on the site of the former "Clendennon Barbed Wire Factory and Metals Fabricating Plant Number Three."

"Quite an impressive manure pile of words!" Fenton Koury murmured to himself when he pulled his old car to a stop in the dusty dirt parking lot.

And so he had made the place his home, far from official scrutiny, although hiding in plain sight of the most official "officialdom" of all, the United States Army. It was perfect. He refused an offer of one of the small cottages, then located on the land, and set up housekeeping deep in the bowels of the dark basement of the main building.

He dragged his heavy, cash-laden trunk downstairs and parked it near the bed, started his job as … whatever-the-hell-it-was-called … and began to write in the first of many journals about his life's exploits. Meanwhile, he made secret investments and added even more money to his stash.

After a few years, he started the monumental task of ferreting gobs of cash in all those nooks and crannies he knew about throughout the basement, where no one would ever think to look for them.

Except that the journals pointed out exactly where every penny was located!

Nola and Oscar finished the last journal, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Oh. My. God!" They said.

"Should we tell everybody right away? Or should we gather it all up first, and then tell Sonny when he gets back?'

"I think we'd better find it all first, and then tell Sonny. This is going to be almost as damn big as the Soon Chang robbery!"

"Boy, you aint just a-shittin'!"

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	24. Chapter 24

- Chapter 24 –

"Facing Up To It"

For quite some time after Billy Travis left, Gregory House sat propped against his pillows, head leaned back, eyes angled toward the ceiling again, thoughts adrift. He wandered aimlessly within his own imaginings, attempting to contemplate the path his life might take from this day forward. There was very little fight left in him, and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep from giving everything up to despair.

They'd been backing off the morphine, tiny-bit by tiny-bit, and his pain was taking full advantage of the reprieve by showing him who the hell was boss. Then, when Julie Wilson wheeled her husband out of the room with an expression on her face that Gregg read only as triumph, a feeling of horrible emptiness washed over him on top of everything else. His desperate need for Wilson's presence, even while denying that fact to himself, galled him, and he hated the dependence he felt, and the void that opened in his heart when his friend was not present.

He despised the way he was feeling, and loathed the changes in his body, which also changed the manner in which he perceived himself. For years he had fought to adapt to the "crippledness" he could do nothing about. After a time he'd perfected a flawless technique for keeping all the bleeding hearts away. He held himself aloof from everyone's efforts to be extra kind to the man with the cane and the heartbreaking limp and the trembling leg that he could not disguise under any circumstances.

He ignored the "Awww …" factor from those who witnessed, for the first time, his painful movements as he struggled through a bad day at work. He ignored those who were motivated to steady his less-than-stable balance, or clear a path for him, or get up and offer him a chair when they saw him coming. He could handle that. Sometimes on a really bad day, he would actually accept the chair and the concessions. Not gracefully, but out of necessity.

Pain was an ongoing factor in his life, but he could usually cope with that. He had amassed an encyclopedic knowledge about pain and its methods of endless seduction He had struggled through countless hours of hit-or-miss coping, and hurtful experiences of trial and error. He had made it through a very long learning process of dropping things, knocking things over, tripping over things, bumping into things and reaching for things beyond his grasp, with often-disastrous results.

He had tried to carry things, which simply were not "carryable" for someone who walked with a cane. He had, on occasion, felt his balance slipping away, grasping at anything available to stop himself from falling; had fallen anyway, lying helpless right where he'd dropped, panting like a caged lion in pain, frustration and anger.

He'd spent more than his share of hours lying on the floor, too miserable and too weak to get up again. He'd been a victim of his own stubborn overconfidence; laying the cane down somewhere and then forgetting and trying to walk away as though everything was normal … and again suffering the consequences of his own shortsightedness.

The learning process had been very slow and very painful, but he'd finally managed it. His pain still went through the roof if he sat in one position too long, or if he'd pushed himself too far and then not sat down long enough.

The most important thing he'd learned in the long run was the fact that he couldn't win, no matter how hard he tried, and there was always that threat of "stuff just happens!" that he'd told Wilson about a long time ago.

Now however, through no fault of his own, "stuff-just-happens" was happening again. In spades. Gregg House had known fear in his life. Many times. The day his dad had the heart attack. The time he'd lost the brakes on his car and went down an embankment and then walked away unhurt, although his heart had been in his mouth the whole time.

The day Stacy had finally left him for good, all alone in the empty sea of his miserable self, and walked away forever to search other waters for her own peace of mind. He'd known desperate fear when he finally accepted the fact that he _was_ a cripple, would _always_ be a cripple, and nothing short of divine intervention would ever make him whole again.

Today, however, the fear gnawed deep in his belly and throbbed like a klaxon in his head. He knew he was a strong man; a prideful and stubborn man, a resourceful and intelligent man. But the beast which was ravaging him now was beginning to override his other attributes with a debilitating fear that had him cringing like a coward and dreading the weeks, months and years which still lay ahead.

Another mountain to climb. And another. And another. Soon he would be up so high that the thin atmosphere of his life would turn to vacuum, and he would suffocate alone, surrounded by a sea of nothing … nothing at all.

The floodgates opened and House averted his face while silent tears wet the center of his pillow until there were no tears left.

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Julie Wilson pulled the baby blue Avalon as close as she could get it to the front entrance of the hospital, and waited while James rolled himself across to the passenger door. A co-worker had given her a ride to Newark to pick up the car at the airport the day the boys had flown to Phoenix. Now, she threw the gearshift into "park" and hurried around to the other side where she could assist her husband from the wheelchair to the white leather front seat. His legs were very weak, and he held to her shoulders tightly for strength and balance as he made the difficult transition from one seat to the other.

After she had collapsed the light wheelchair and placed it in the trunk, Julie reseated herself behind the wheel and looked across at the strained face of the man at her side. "That really hurt you to do that, didn't it?"

He looked up at her, his handsome face a study in mixed emotions. "Not pain, exactly," he assured her, "so much as the pressure. The area around my spinal cord is still swollen to some extent, and that's why my legs don't want to work. I'll be fine, really. Don't worry about it."

"But I do, darling," she said, reaching out her hand and placing it over his, which rested lightly on his left knee.

He turned his palm up and took her fingers in his own. "It's okay, Jule … really. I'll be back to doing the Tango in a couple of weeks, and you'll never know anything was wrong." He was trying to be reassuring, but knew it wasn't working. He could have bitten his tongue for having called her "Jule". He'd seen the corners of her mouth turn downward automatically in distaste. "Sorry," he said. "That slipped."

She heaved a huge put-upon sigh. "That man's influence in our marriage is everywhere.

I wish he'd just … go find himself a crippled woman somewhere … twice as miserable as he is … and ride off into the sunset with her. God, I hate it when he calls me that!"

"You're not being fair, Julie. But you'll be free of Gregg soon enough, I suppose. He was hurt so severely that he'll never walk again. He's probably going to be stuck in a wheelchair the rest of his life. What they did to him out there was one of the most brutal things I ever …" His voice trailed off miserably.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't mean to be so harsh, but what they did to you was at least as bad. He's your friend and I understand that. If you'll recall, I always did say you should have married him instead of me!"

"Julie! Don't ever say that!"

She smiled at him sweetly and squeezed the hand she still held.

At the house, she helped him back into the chair and pushed him from the carport into the kitchen, then to the living room to the couch where she helped him out of his hospital bathrobe and slippers. She placed a pillow behind his back and handed him an extra one that he could press to his belly. She covered his legs with a light blanket and went to the kitchen to unwrap a tin of frozen lasagna and toss it into the oven. Could he eat any of it? She did not know. It did not really matter much.

By the time she'd returned to sit with him for a little while, he was asleep on his side with his knees drawn up. He looked pained and exhausted, and she felt deeply for him.

But whatever the feeling was, as she sat watching him, she was afraid it was not love.

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Wilson had asked not to be admitted, but Cuddy admitted him anyway. It was much too soon for him to wander off on his own without medical monitoring and being away from a hospital environment for any length of time, especially overnight.

When Cuddy found out from House that Wilson had gone off with his wife, the Boss Lady hit the proverbial ceiling. She put in an exasperated phone call to the Wilson household and spoke to her AWOL Boy Genius Oncologist. She was even more put out when she found that his wife had to wake him up from cat napping on the couch to take the call, a singularly stupid place to be when his body was still weakened from traumatic injury.

As a doctor, he should have known better.

Wilson had shot right back at her with the reasoning that it was at least as therapeutic to be at home in relaxed surroundings than take up a bed in the hospital when he didn't really need it, and he could be more comfortable right where he was.

Cuddy countered that argument with his former stance that his purpose for not wanting to be admitted was that he would be of more use in monitoring House, remaining by his side because he'd had been very worried about his friend. That fact, plus the assurance from Cuddy that his own serious injuries still required close monitoring.

The logical argument thrown back in his face stopped Wilson dead in his tracks. The phone lines between the Wilson residence on Ridge Road, and Cuddy's office at PPTH sizzled with tension from their awkward silence for long moments.

Cuddy's voice resumed, finally. "Will you ask Julie to bring you back here? Or must I send an ambulance?"

A sigh from the Wilson's end of the line brought the discussion to a close. "She'll bring me in, Dr. Cuddy. Sorry. I don't know what the hell I was thinking …"

He was lying! He knew he was lying, Cuddy knew he was lying, and Julie also, probably knew he was lying. He'd known damn well what he was thinking.

When Julie arrived at the hospital, she was the last person in the world he wanted to see, but he went with her in the guise of loving spouse, and out of Gregg's room in an effort to quash his "stupid-husband" attack of guilty conscience. It was just wrong for a man to choose to stay at the side of a fallen friend than go home with his beautiful wife.

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Their visitors from Arizona were preparing to fly home. Cuddy and the Ducklings had reserved free time to have lunch in House's hospital room with Wilson and Sonny and Rema. The Learjet was back at the Princeton Airport, its pilot returned from visiting relatives in Maryland, and they would all gather for a leisurely meal and have a long goodbye.

Foreman, Chase and Cameron arrived together, joining Cuddy, Marks and Tse, who were already there. Cuddy smiled at the look of the three of them together, reminding her of Huey, Louie and Dewey in all their fresh-faced youth and enthusiastic vitality.

They were very quiet when they entered their mentor's room, but were surprised to see that he was sitting up with a semi-pleasant look on his thin face, and wearing a set of hospital scrubs. He was freshly shaved with his hair combed.

His leg had been removed from the sling contraption, but was still propped on bed pillows. The injured foot was bare, and lay cocooned between soft fabrics, free of anything that might touch the wound at his ankle. The skin was a rip-roaring shade between black and purple, but the swelling was down and the site of the surgical incision was clean and beginning to heal. The rest of the damaged leg was covered with a blanket that ended at his waist. House's shoulder was no longer strapped, but his arm was in a sling, and while they were there he did not attempt to move it, but ate his meal gingerly with his left hand.

Wilson remained in the wheelchair, but today he was back to his "moppy" self; scrubbed and dressed in faded jeans and an old tee shirt with a Motley Crue logo. Everyone knew it was one of House's.

The conversation at first centered on Sonny and Rema's impressions of the efficient, immaculate, well-run hospital. They could not stop exclaiming about the gleaming modern equipment they had observed, and the large number of dedicated staff, and the literally hundreds of med students, interns and residents scurrying around the many wards, hurrying through the hallways and working in the labs.

They marveled at the sheer size of the place as compared to Rez. PPTH was brightly lit, with a thousand windows, which let in sunlight for every minute of the day in which there _was_ sunlight. Rez Hospital was dark and dingy, and although housed in a very large building, much of its space was wasted, piled with junk which would never be cleared because of the limited resources.

Sonny and Rema shook their heads in amazed delight at the size of the cafeterias alone, even when told that there were five of them, one on each floor, sectioned off for the professional staff where they could hold consultations, and for the non-professional staff as well: Housekeeping, Food Service, Maintenance, Motor Pool, Office Personnel and Volunteer Services.

"We have two cooks and four kitchen people," Sonny admitted. "They work out their own shifts and we make do. I have limited staff and limited funding. And Rez carries a big mortgage. That's small potatoes to the U. S. Army, but a really big chunk out of the monthly budget. Rema and Nikki Asdza and I don't take much by way of salaries, but we still feel the pinch when payday comes around. Amiga makes more than we do!" he said with a chagrinned smile.

"I didn't realize you bought the place from the Army," Foreman said. "I guess I just figured it appeared out of nowhere … like Topsy!"

Sonny and Rema laughed at the "Uncle Tom's Cabin" reference, and the subtle manner in which it rang true to the uninitiated. "Trust me," he said, "Topsy showed up for free … but Rez sure didn't! I'll be in my sixties when it's finally paid off. Like Gregg when he's finally caught up with Clinic Duty …" he added with a grin. He had heard all the horror stories. "And in the meantime, the patients just keep coming and coming."

"What do you need most, Sonny?" The question came from Cameron, and she looked at him with a frown, spoon dangling in mid air. Gregg eyed her speculatively and Wilson eyed Gregg.

"Medicines and supplies, always first priority," he said. "Those take a huge chunk. Then central air conditioning; a necessity in that part of the country! We have window units, but they're a poor substitute. After that, work needs to be done on the elevator. We have only one, and it's been there since the 1930's or 40's. Someday it's going to fail, and people are going to get hurt, or it will just quit and then we'll be up the creek. We need other stuff too, but those are at the top of the list."

"Do you receive any donations? Are there businesses in the area that could help out?" Cameron persisted. "Don't people care?"

"Oh, they care. But after awhile, economic feasibility falls off. Businesses are almost continually forced to rethink their priorities, just like everyone else nowadays. Worthy causes often compete for the same funding dollars, and sometimes the money dries up. Not a happy thought, but it happens. It happens continually, and to everyone. Rez isn't the only cause that needs a helping hand."

"What about fund raisers?" Chase asked. "Events that could be organized for the benefit of the hospital! Things like Willie Nelson's Farm Aid … and the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon … things like that …"

"We've never been very successful with those," Sonny admitted. "I guess none of us are very talented in the area of coming up with fresh ideas."

While they talked, Lisa Cuddy had been studying her nail polish, thinking of James Wilson's suggestion to Gregory House awhile back. She turned her attention to Wilson now, and raised her eyebrows significantly, not sure if he wanted his idea to be made public. The conversation had Gregg's attention also, and Cuddy saw his eyes also gravitate to his friend.

Wilson looked from one to the other and hesitated for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "I've done some thinking about that …" he began. And at once he had their full attention. "Ahhh … what would you all think about a benefit concert?"

"Benefit Concert????" The words echoed around the room from the throats of every person present.

"Yeah. Why not?" His hand reached outward, arm encompassing everyone in the room. "Have any of you ever heard Gregory House play piano? Or guitar? Or jazz harmonica? Of course you haven't … but his music sends shivers down your spine. He can sing too. Great baritone …"

"Whoa, Wilson!" House suddenly came vocal. He pointed to the sling on his arm, to the crippled leg and damaged foot. "Are you nuts?"

Wilson was grinning. "I didn't mean _today_, dammit!"

Facial expressions were changing in the room. Thinking. Contemplating.

Wilson went on. "C'mon, House … we talked about this before. I can play guitar a little. Good enough to get by, and good enough to play accompaniment. And you wouldn't believe Nikki Asdza on the Native American flute! She wrote a piece called 'The Eagle' … and, believe me; you're right up there in the sky with her. It's like nothing you've ever heard in your life. She plays with the Phoenix Symphony sometimes, and it's … awesome.

"There's also a doctor Gregg and I know from Chicago … cardiac specialist by the name of Jeffrey Geiger. Plays piano … sings. He's good. And how many more doctors do we know who make music their hobby? I would think, many, what with the pressure of the work. Why couldn't we get them together in one place … ask them to play for a good cause?"

Wilson paused to look around. He could see the expressions of contemplation sweeping the room, could almost hear the buzzing and clicking of little mental wheels as they began to turn. He centered his attention on his old college chum. "If you and Nikki and Rema work on it from your end, Redskin Bro, House and I will do the same from this end. Think the Phoenix Symphony might be interested in playing along?"

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Cuddy and Foreman accompanied Sonny and Rema to the airport. Stood side by side and watched the graceful Learjet climb into the sky.

Then it was gone beyond the clouds, and they really should be getting back to the hospital.

Lisa Cuddy lifted her index and middle fingertips to her lips and kissed them with a sly smile spreading beneath sparkling blue eyes. She then lifted them to Eric's face and touched them there lovingly.

"Dr. House is going to get better Eric … I can feel it!"

He grinned. "I think so too. He's too damn stubborn not to! By the way … can you sing?"

She laughed. "I … could try …"

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11


	25. Chapter 25

- Chapter 25 –

"Wheelchair Brigade"

"House!"

Gregg dragged his attention away from listlessly pondering the tiles on his ceiling long enough to turn his head in the general direction of Wilson's voice from the open doorway. "What do you want _now_?" He growled.

It was early in the morning, and his coffee hadn't been delivered yet. He'd been awake for several hours; general body aches nagging him long before sunrise. He'd been too stubborn to push the button though, but was more than ready to whine his plight to whoever darkened his doorway first. He might have known it would be Wilson: Wilson in old blue jeans, grungy sneakers and one of House's collection of odd tee shirts, this time the treasured dark blue "WHO" shirt. James's shaggy hair hung over his forehead and his brown eyes were bright. Even his enthusiasm though, couldn't mask the concentration of effort that clouded his expression.

House was about to hit the roof to bitch about the shirt, but then he did a double take, and an adrenaline rush of alarm traveled down his spine and accelerated the pain in his shoulder and leg by about ten degrees. "Wilson?"

James was not in the wheelchair today, but plodding along haltingly on a pair of arm canes that looked about to throw his skinny ass onto the floor. One laborious step at a time, he approached House's bedside and halted with a much-too-wide grin of success on his face. Sweat stood out on his forehead from the strain of movement. "Yeah? What? Did you want something?"

"Are you planning on joining the Flying Wallendas? Or do you just have a death wish?" House watched his friend's wobbly approach in trepidation, entertaining thoughts of becoming madder than hell with Wilson's carelessness. "You're still not ready for those things, Goddammit!"

Wilson's grin just got a little wider and he shrugged, not easy under the circumstances. "Change is inevitable, wouldn't you say?" he said with a knowing wiggle of his eyebrows. "Those of us who live in the present accept change when it presents itself; those of us who live in the past tend to … well … sit in hospital beds growing calluses on their arses, with their gimpy legs propped on piles of pillows, refusing to allow anyone to come near them. A-a-and … they sit around all day with their arms in slings and their minds in the gutter, bored out of their freakin' skulls …"

"Wilson, what the hell are you talking about, you prick? You know I can't …"

"Yeah … I know. And if you _could_ get out of that bed, you'd kick my ass, right?"

"You got that right!"

"Well, what would you say if I said I could actually help you do the first part of that?"

"What?"

"MiGod, House … for an intelligent man, you can be exceedingly dense. I came to offer you a chance to get the hell out of that bed for awhile."

"What? How? Wilson, you are _so_ full of shit …"

Wilson, however, could see the frown of concentration taking over the mobile features, the mental juggling of pros and cons and the weighing of added pain in exchange for a possible change of scenery.

"Billy's right outside, House … and he has something for you." Wilson's sense of "gotcha!" went up another notch. "Come on in, Travis!" He called out in the direction of the corridor.

They heard it before they saw it. The big motorized wheelchair whirred around the corner of the doorway and whined across the floor with Billy Travis at the controls, his grin even wider than Wilson's, if that was possible. "Ta _da_!" He gushed as he switched off the motor and climbed out of the contraption.

House's mouth was already open, but Billy hushed him. "Shhh!! Hush, Man! Wouldja kindly keep quiet until I go outside and get Jimmy's chair?" He sprang to the doorway and disappeared into the corridor. Came back in an instant pushing the small, lightweight wheelchair Wilson had been using for a week or so. "There ya go, Jimmy."

Wilson sank into it gratefully and Travis stuffed the arm canes into the carrier in back. "Just making a point," Wilson smirked.

House snorted. "Yeah! You're lucky your … _'arse'_ … didn't end up on the floor!"

"Gregg?" Billy was serious when he turned around to talk to them both.

That was the moment the breakfast trays arrived. They decided to forego everything but the coffee, and the trays disappeared again.

"Gregg, would you like to get out of that bed today?"

"Oh Christ, _yes!_ Is the Pope Catholic?" But …"

Billy had been ready for the "buts". "Do you trust me not to hurt you?"

House nodded. "Yeah. I do." He grabbed the only cup he could reach and took a swallow of coffee, bracing himself for whatever was next.. "Yummy! Hospital coffee!"

Years before, when House had first suffered the infarction, he and Wilson had already been friends with Bill Travis. Bill was a nurse, one of the best at his job and one of the most compassionate people they knew. Bill had taken over the custodial care of Gregory House from the time he'd been admitted, screaming in pain, to the hospital's emergency room.

Travis had known Gregg almost as long as Wilson had, and knew what a handful he could be. Also like Jim Wilson, however, Billy had never raised his voice, never treated the older man with anything but calmness and concern. Never demanded from Gregg anything he couldn't deliver, and certainly never patronized him. He had given him "lip" and a hard time instead. Called him "Hey You!" and "Boss Man" much more often than the respectful title of "Dr. House", and it had somehow hit the right chord with Gregg's outrageous sense-of-"weird".

After a time, House had come to trust the huge man with his life and his physical safety. Travis was one of only two people in the world he would allow to touch his crippled leg. Now William R. Travis was a Nursing Supervisor, and respected by everyone he came into contact with. And Gregg trusted him now, as he had always trusted him before.

"The first thing we're going to do is get a protective sock on that foot!"

Gregg's eyes widened and he was almost ready to protest.

"You trust me, right?"

House nodded.

"Okay then. I know how sensitive your foot is. Norm Lyons told me about the nerve damage that still needs to heal … but you can't go out in the corridors without _some_ kind of protection on your foot. I can't let you. So. What I'm gonna do, is put a diabetic sock on you. Soft as eider down. It might be uncomfortable at first, but it'll work."

Powerful dark hands pulled a plastic bag from a pocket of his scrubs and held it up. "May as well use the pair. Let me put one on your good foot first, okay?" Billy was already tearing open the bag. He slipped the large, soft white sock over House's left foot with a flourish, and patted the ankle in reassurance. He went around the bed and lifted the blanket.

His skin was beginning to lose some of the dark bruising, but still looked exceedingly painful. "Ready?" Billy lifted House's leg gently until his foot was free of the pillow. He slid the sock on in a practiced motion that Gregg hardly realized until it was finished. "There you go! You okay, Boss?"

House pulled a crunched face and hissed a long intake of breath. Other than the initial pain of contact, his foot was fine. He slumped against the upraised back of the bed and blew out the breath he'd started to hold. His face cleared. "My God! It didn't hurt! Travis, you're a miracle worker!"

"And you, Dr. Gregory House, are a big sissy pants bag of wind!" Billy grinned. "Are you ready to take a walk?"

"Oh yeah! Get me the fuck out of here!"

Travis turned to Wilson. "I'm gonna lift him, Jimmy. I have to be careful with his shoulder, so could I get you to hold his leg and keep it straight while I get him settled? Then just hold it while I lift the leg rest. We don't dare jar him or bend his knee. Okay?"

Wilson knew that, but welcomed the reminder. Gregg's leg could not withstand any kind of lateral movement. He wondered if it was even safe to take him out into the hallways. Billy, however, was the expert at this, and if Gregg trusted him, then he did too.

Travis lifted House bodily, cradling his uninjured side to his chest as though Gregg were an ailing child, and settled him into the deep cushion of the plush chair. Wilson held the leg straight, while Travis lifted the lever that brought the automatic leg rest to a level where Wilson could just remove his hands from beneath it. House was ready to go.

Wilson handed Travis the blanket and reached up to unhook House's Foley line and bag. They attached the bag to the side of the big chair and covered everything with the blanket, hiding the Foley and tucking the blanket around him. "House?" Wilson asked. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Standard answer. Wilson had heard it a million times before. They both had!

At least!

00000000

They had a stepladder. They had workmen's gloves. They had flashlights and baseball caps to combat the cobwebs. And they had a plastic garbage bag so full of old currency that it looked more like a balloon.

They felt like children on an Easter Egg Hunt; like partygoers pinning the tail on the donkey; like treasure-map holders digging like hell where the "X" marked the spot.

And they were laughing like a couple of idiots.

Nola and Oscar could not keep themselves from giggles of excitement. They were up to their elbows in rusty water pipes and abandoned heat ducts. They extended their arms to the armpits under the rafters and beneath old floorboards to pull out ancient paper grocery bags filled with bills of all denominations except ones.

A box of plumbing elbows yielded more than $70,000 in cash, stuffed between their threads. Loose stones in the wall behind a set of empty shelves revealed another stash of over $1,120,000 in stacked, banded bills. God only knew how much more was squirreled away … or where! They were both tired, but exhilarated, and they knew they really should quit for the night.

But when they passed through the room that housed the old fire-system sprinkler risers, an inquisitive hand thrust down the maw of one of them brought out a bouquet of dusty hundred-dollar bills.

_My God_! _Where will it end?_

They finally had to quit and brush each other off so they could go back upstairs without looking like coal miners or oil wildcatters. They burst into the dining room from the basement, dragging the full-to-bursting black plastic garbage bag, still laughing like idiots and stomping through the door as though they were arriving with boots packed with snow.

Nikki Asdza and Chas Kehoe sat at one of the tables eating their dinner and enjoying coffee and conversation when their filthy colleagues appeared out of the dim side of the room and bust into the circle of light near the center.

"What the hell?" Chas exclaimed. "You guys look like you been working in the Kentucky coal mines!"

"Nola? Oscar? What in the name of the Great Spirit is going on?" Nikki's eyes were wide as saucers.

They did not speak at first. They did not trust themselves to say anything coherent. They dragged the dirty garbage bag forward and plopped it on the floor near the table. Finally, Nola brushed a fringe of hair out of her eyes and smiled sweetly. Oscar was grinning like a hyena, but he was willing to allow Nola to say whatever smart-ass comment came out of her mouth.

Nola gestured to the bag dramatically. "Uh … I think we just paid off Sonny's mortgage! Tomorrow we'll get him central air. The day after that, maybe we can order a new elevator. Then … who knows?"

They were going to keep it quiet until Sonny returned, but it was impossible to contain, and it was a windfall that screamed to be shared. And so they told the story of Fenton Koury and his strange life and legacy. With Chas and Nikki looking as though they'd just been hit over the heads with baseball bats, Nola and Oscar made the pronouncement that they were hungry.

They ate like lumberjacks and headed for the showers while Nikki and Chas stared, open-mouthed into the huge, gaping garbage bag.

Far into the night, four people burned the midnight oil and sat with twenty-three spiral-bound notebooks, asking questions. Was this money legal to keep? Did it belong to Rez Hospital? Could they deposit the cash into a bank without Federal intervention or investigation? If so, the Federal income taxes would be staggering!

How much more loot was stashed in and around where this had come from? It was like manna from Heaven … or Strange Medicine straight from the realm of Injun Magic.

After all this time, would there be any way to trace its origins? And if so, did they have any obligation to return any or all of it to the descendents of those from whom it had been originally stolen? Questions, questions! They needed answers. Answers! Thank the Great Spirit … Sonny and Rema were on their way home!

Sonny would know. If he didn't, they would have to hire a lawyer. Maybe the whole damned law firm.

00000000

Gregg became tired very quickly. He had been able to traverse the corridors in the monstrous wheelchair for an hour or so, but after that his pain began to intensify from the constant vibration of movement, and it drove him back to his room to lie down and pay dearly for his taste of freedom.

Billy lifted him gently back to bed with Wilson's help, in a reverse action of an hour before. A shot in the butt lulled him out of his pain-filled fog and he slept immediately.

"No more than a half-hour next time," Wilson said, searching House's face for any last trace of pain. Gregg's features were smooth now, and he was comfortable for the time being. They pillowed his leg carefully, and made certain his body was positioned in such a way as to take the most pressure off his shoulder. The sling on his arm was bunched, so they eased it off, placing his hand carefully across his abdomen. They rehooked the Foley and covered him to his shoulders with the blanket, making certain its weight did not touch his foot.

They left the white socks where they were. It couldn't hurt. "I'm staying here with him," Wilson declared. "I need to be here when he wakes up." He met Billy's soft gaze stubbornly. He was tired himself, but that didn't matter right now. "I don't want to go back to my room. I wouldn't stay there anyway."

Billy smiled. "Hey Jimmy … you're preachin' to the choir, Man!"

"Sorry."

"No biggie … I'll send somebody in here with a better chair. He's not gonna wake up for a couple of hours, and you can't sit in a damn wheelchair that whole time."

Wilson nodded. "Thanks." He returned his attention to Gregory House and only half noticed when Billy left.

The recliner arrived fifteen minutes later, and he switched himself into it with more ease than he'd expected.

It was almost October. Days were a little shorter and nights were a little cooler. It was an early dusk. James Wilson settled himself more comfortably, propped his feet up and turned his face toward the bed.

He catnapped. When he wasn't catnapping, he was checking on House.

Housed slept the sleep of the innocent ...

00000000

18


	26. Chapter 26

- Chapter 26 –

"Have I Told You Lately … ?"

Days grew shorter and colder as the east coast moved into late October. Autumn leaves turned crimson and yellow and gold, then turned brown and dropped to the ground. Brisk winds further bared the limbs of the big maple trees around the perimeter of Princeton-Plainsboro, and Halloween decorations were everywhere.

With the absence of foliage, the view toward downtown began to come visible through the branches once again, and brightly colored city buses and taxis and other traffic could be observed hurrying about on the streets. Children in dirty, unzipped ski jackets and backwards baseball hats ran and jumped happily into piles of raked leaves, and threw footballs around and picked wrinkled horse chestnuts off the ground in the park.

Life went on at PPTH. Lisa Cuddy, Hospital Administrator, juggled schedules the same way she had always done it, and continued her daily hassle with House, who was no longer bed-ridden, but who had begun to prowl the corridors in the same lightweight wheelchair Wilson had used while the strength returned to his legs.

Wilson seemed very much into a life-transition as time passed. He had walked with House's fancy cane for a few weeks, mostly as an aid to balance, rather than relief for any residual pain in his back. He had recently returned to a full schedule and workload, plus continuing to spend time with House, still living in his hospital room, a place that had taken on the look of a country store and electronics shop.

His Game Boy, iPod, small-screen TV, and piles of torn junk-food wrappers, books and magazines migrated from his apartment and office to his hospital room. He surrounded himself with "things" … but not people.

House went back to work also, although on a limited schedule. His disposition had not improved one whit, even after his narrow escape from death, and he had become even more irascible than ever, keeping to himself except when concentrating on a case. His staff knew well enough to stay away.

His shoulder was nearly healed, but still not strong enough to enable him to use crutches. He had regained use of his arm, but still could not lift it over his head. He propelled himself about with restless hands on the big wheels of the lightweight chair. His crippled leg lay stretched out before him on the raised leg rest, and he could not bear weight. He had to learn to go through every door backwards, and it caused no end to the bitching, should anyone get in his way.

Norman Lyons in orthopedics adamantly refused to allow him to try crutches until he could do so without danger of the shoulder giving out and dumping him on his ass. Lyons also refused to discharge him until this could be accomplished. An accidental fall in his apartment was all he would need to put him in a wheelchair forever, and he could kiss even the crutches goodbye. House said nothing, but as time passed, the wheelchair became more and more a constant companion.

After his shoulder was pronounced healed, he still did nothing to make the transition. Lyons and his staff began to apply mild pressure to get him _onto_ the crutches as they had applied adamant pressure to keep him _off_ them before. Pleading and cajoling, they warned him that his sound leg would soon begin to weaken.

House did not argue; he simply clammed up.

Toward the beginning of November, Wilson finally confessed that he and Julie were getting a divorce, and that their house was up for sale. House's only reaction was a snicker and a boastful: "I could have told you that two years ago!" He did, however, offer Wilson a haven at his luxury apartment in the Gateway Complex on East Side Drive. "You might as well bivouac at my place. I sure-as-hell can't live there yet, dammit; not until 'Dr. Simon Legree' gives me a freakin' discharge!"

"That discharge might be forthcoming in a more appropriate manner if you would decide to cooperate with the people in the Orthopedics Department," Wilson remarked calmly. Wilson took him up on the apartment offer post-haste, however, before Gregg changed his mind. The in-town apartment was a lot closer than his place on Ridge Road, and he would not have to move furniture, only "stuff". Everything else he turned over to Julie in the divorce settlement.

James moved everything he had owned "pre-Julie" into Gregg's spare bedroom after cleaning the accumulated junk out of it and putting it all in storage. He made himself at home in a very short time, since he was already as familiar with the place as he had been with his own.

Mid-November, Lisa Cuddy received a call from Arizona.

Sonny Tse's excited voice came across the line with a bellowed: "_Guess What_!"

"Hi Sonny! It's great to hear from you! _What_?"

"Two things!"

He told her every detail about the stashed money, and the fact that after all of it had been collected and counted; it had totaled more than seven million dollars. There was no way for anyone to lay claim to it, so, legally it came with Rez Hospital when he had bought the building and the land.

"WHA-A-T???"

"Yeah! It's ours, free and clear! After taxes. And guess what else! So is Rez! We paid off the mortgage yesterday!"

She was laughing with delight at his good fortune. "Wonderful! You can buy air conditioning! Anything else?"

"The Benefit Concert is _on_! You won't believe who all is going to show up!"

"Who?" His enthusiasm was infectious, and she grabbed onto it happily.

"Every single doctor who attended the convention last summer has promised to come! Some of them are hobby musicians, and they'll even solo if we want them to. Jeffrey Geiger is coming from Chicago … be sure to tell Jimmy and Gregg … and we have tentative commitments from Bonnie Raitt and Alan Jackson!"

"Really? Both of them?"

"Yeah, really! The date is set for April 8th, which is a Saturday night. We've already reserved the Gammage Auditorium in Scottsdale, and tickets go on sale right after Christmas. Isn't that great?"

"That," Lisa agreed, "is fantastic! What do you need from this end?"

"All I need, really, is for as many of your people to attend as possible. It will be so good to see you all again … and I guess I really need you to update me about Jimmy and Gregg. _I really_ need to know about Jimmy and Gregg! How are they?"

Lisa sighed. "Dr. Wilson is fine. He's fully recovered. His legs get stronger every day, and he recently gave up the cane he'd been using. He's back on full caseload and back to his sweet, stubborn self.

"House though, is some kind of different story. The nerve damage in his foot may be permanent, and it's pretty certain that the injuries to his bad leg were so severe that he's never going to walk again … at least not without crutches. So, his cane is history, and he still has chronic pain. He says it's not any worse than it was before, but he never was very open about that, so I'm not sure if he's hiding something … or if he is, how much."

Lisa paused for a heartbeat and then continued. "He doesn't say much to me anymore. He's back to work, but he seems reluctant to leave the wheelchair. I don't know what's going on with him, and James is puzzled too. Dr. Lyons finally discharged him, since Wilson is getting a divorce and has moved in with him. Wilson keeps an eye on him.

They worry me Sonny, both of them, in a way. They seem … oh, I don't know … kind of quiet and sad."

It was Sonny's turn to pause for thought. Then: "I'm so sorry to hear that, Lisa. But they have a lot of things to work through, you know."

Sonny did not mention the things he knew, or how he knew them. It was not his place.

"I really need them both to be part of this concert. It's thanks to them that it came about in the first place. Do you think they might try? Do you think Gregg will? I'm so _damned _sorry about what happened to him."

"I don't know, Sonny. I really don't know, but none of it was anyone's fault. Wilson told me Gregg used to say 'sometimes stuff just happens'. I'll speak to him and see how he feels about it. Maybe he'll do it for you … but don't expect miracles."

They spoke of Rez Hospital's good fortune for another ten minutes, and then rang off.

00000000

Evenings on East Side Drive were damned chilly. Chilly outside, chilly inside, and the settings on the thermostat had nothing to do with it.

The look of the big apartment had changed. It was set up as handicap-accessible when Gregg had first moved there. It had low counter tops and reachable-from-a-wheelchair electrical outlets. Its cupboards were no higher than someone in a wheelchair could reach, and the kitchen sink was manageable, even if you were five years old.

But now the shower had a low-threshold ramped entry, and the Jacuzzi could be accessed with a mechanical platform. The toilet had newly installed stainless steel supports on either side, which looked a lot like short parallel bars. There were grab bars all over the place in the bathroom.

With Gregg home again and using only a wheelchair, all his antique throw rugs were gone, by order of Norm Lyons. Wilson, on good advice, had picked up every newspaper, magazine and book formerly strewn about the floor. There was no clothing on the bedroom floor either, and both doors had been removed from the closet. Gregg's shirts, pants, jeans and the like were on shelves no higher than his shoulders, and the same with the shoe racks.

No sneakers were dropped on the floor to trip him up. Only left ones were in evidence in the closet, starkly reminding him that he no longer wore one on the right foot. His underwear and socks were in the middle drawers of the dresser, and his toiletries were laid out on top until work could be completed in the bathroom to install a bigger medicine cabinet with a lower mirror and more handy spaces to stash the things he needed.

As might be expected, Gregg scoffed at the whole idea. He bitched that the place screamed _"cripple"_ at him the moment he rolled through the front door, and it never shut up until he rolled back out again. More than once he threatened to move, buy himself a goddamned house trailer and put it somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. All he needed was a ramp to get in and out of it. He could take care of the rest by himself.

"Oh?" Wilson had asked calmly. "Everything in a 'house trailer' is built on a smaller scale. The doorways are narrower, bathrooms and kitchens, usually smaller. Fewer spaces to store things … and the cabinets go all the way to the ceilings to utilize every inch of space. And you're going to cope with this … how?"

"Wilson, mind your own fuckin' business!"

Shrug. "Just asking …"

But Wilson was worried. Something dark and frightening was going on with Gregory House, and his friend had it locked away so deeply that no one could touch it … or him.

Wisely James did not push, but watched silently, wondering what was really going on in his friend's dark and angry thoughts. House did not offer, and Wilson did not ask. Many evenings went by without a word between the two of them, and James began to wonder if it would not be wise if he should be the one to move out.

One night he broached the subject, and was alarmed to see a bright spike of panic in Gregg's eyes. It gave him courage, finally, to open up about the problem. The answer he received was nothing near what he'd expected.

House had been sitting in the big brown leather club chair, staring across absently at the television and chewing on potato chips. His leg was still stiff and unyielding, and his foot, still bare whenever he was not at work, was propped on the stool in front of him, on top of two bed pillows.

Wilson could see the pucker of bright pick suture scars extending out of sight below the juncture of the ankle. He knew Gregg was hurting; had seen him pop two Vicodin tonight on two separate occasions, the second pop at least two hours before it was due. After an extended period of silence, he finally looked up.

"You can't go," Gregg said so softly that Wilson had to strain to hear it.

"Why?" He asked, just as softly.

House's attention shifted from the small screen and across to his friend, like a camera panning a landscape. Wilson could see the blue eyes darting about, focusing on everything but his face, the way Gregg did every time he was nervous. "I couldn't stand it if you left …"

The "me" at the end of the sentence was left unspoken.

There it was. Out in the open, and it sounded like it might even be an honest answer. "Why is that?"

"I need you."

_Oh really???_

"Why? What for? To cook your food? Do the laundry? Dust? Make the beds?"

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

"Then _tell_ me what you meant! I've known you a long time, but I still can't read your damn mind!"

"I couldn't make it without you."

"And the underlying meaning of that statement is … what?" Wilson's heart began to hammer in his chest. Might there be a revelation of truth opening up here?

Gregg's attention panned back to the TV. He put the bag of chips on the floor and began to lift himself from the chair with both arms. Wilson was ready to get up to assist, but House waved him off. "Don't! The only way you'll know is to see." His voice had begun to waver as he lifted his rear end from the chair to slide it across to the wheelchair. His leg dragged around on the stool until he was seated in the chair. Then he reached across to lift his leg manually and slide it onto the upraised leg rest.

"Where are you going?" Wilson demanded.

House had already turned the chair toward the bedroom. He inclined his head in that direction. "In there. I'll be back in a minute. Sit still!"

Wilson was doubtful, but he did as Gregg asked. The wheelchair disappeared into the bedroom and the door closed with a backward snap.

_What the hell?_

After the passage of six minutes by his watch, Wilson was beginning to get antsy. What could Gregg be doing in there? He'd said to sit still, but Wilson was ready to get up and go check.

When the door opened at last, Gregg stood framed in the opening. He was on crutches. Not the more graceful upper-arm canes, but the bulky underarm type which Gregg had always called the "pathetic cripple" crutches.

Wilson frowned. "House? What are you doing?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Just watch." His voice was rigid with control. He dropped his chin, looking down at his feet, an expression of near embarrassment crossing his face. "You've all been wondering why I haven't been using the damned crutches, right?"

Wilson's frown deepened. "Yeah … we _had_ begun to wonder …"

"Well, here's why."

Slowly, House began to limp across the living room from the bedroom to the couch where Wilson sat. His left leg was as strong as it had always been, but the further injury to his right knee and thigh had weakened the muscles to a point where they could not lift his leg high enough to bring his foot off the floor. His foot dragged painfully, his right leg merely twitched, without even the strength to complete the movement. House had no choice but to rotate his entire body far to the left in order to lift his foot off the floor and swing his leg ahead in the semblance of taking a step …

Wilson could only imagine what it had cost in hurt and embarrassment for Gregg to spell it out like this. His breath caught in his throat as his friend stood there, humiliated and vulnerable.

When House finally looked up to stare angrily into the face of the friend who had not understood until now, the price he was paying, his fight for control betrayed him at last. He could no longer hold back the overwhelming emotion. He held his breath, fighting tears, but they rolled down his face in spite of anything he could do to stop them. The Rock of Gibraltar that was Gregory House, began to crumble.

James Wilson came off the couch and gathered his friend into his strong arms with a show of feeling he'd been denying himself as long as he could remember.

"I had no idea," he said sadly. "No idea. I knew something was wrong … and you weren't telling me. But this? Oh God! How in hell have you hidden it so long, even from Norm Lyons too? Why did you try to keep this from everyone? Why, House?"

"Just … couldn't … do it … and Norm Lyons isn't the brightest bulb in the box … it wasn't hard to convince him I was in more pain than I actually was. He … never pressed me that hard to walk with crutches. So I tried it by myself in my room in the hospital one night … and this is it."

House's breaths came in gasps, denying the pain even now, trying to force his body to straighten, pull his foot forward and take the weight of his leg off it. Even the weight of his leg upon the foot, was too much.

Wilson helped him to the couch, lowered him to its surface and drew the crutches away. He sat down on the floor and gently lifted House's leg onto the couch. He looked down into the moist face and touched the tear tracks with the heels of his hands, brushing them away. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

But Wilson didn't receive the standard answer. "Don't leave! Please, Jimmy, don't leave me!"

"Now how do you suppose I could ever leave a pathetic cripple like you?" Wilson placed two fingers across House's mouth to silence him.

Gregg softly nuzzled his fingertips. "I probably wouldn't make it easy for you …"

Wilson smiled and cupped his friend's face gently between both hands. His thumb touched the pink scar that ran down the side of the other man's face. It was healing nicely, and even the thin scar would probably be gone in time.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?"

"If you had, I would probably have gagged. Now though, it seems like a fairly legitimate question. And the answer is 'no'. You haven't. Would you like to tell me now?"

"I love you."

"I don't know why you would do that … and I don't know what caused it. I never did anything to deserve it. Must have been hiding someplace … waiting to jump out at me the next time I wasn't looking. I always thought I liked girls better than boys. But I guess not … or maybe it was just something about you … and some Injun Magic …"

"House?"

"Huh?"

"Shut up and hold me."

"Okay. I can do that."

They embraced quietly, wondering what the bloody hell they were thinking. Was it the emotion of the moment? Or was this a new bend in the road for both of them?

"Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"My leg hurts like hell after that idiotic stunt I just pulled. Get my Vicodin, will you?"

"Yeah. Sure. Hell of a beginning for a love affair."

"I know. No sky rockets going off …"

"No fireworks either. Here's your pills … they're about all the fireworks you can handle right now."

"Y'know, Wilson, I'm only going to put up with this 'gay' stuff until my damn leg stops hurting."

"Looks like we'll be 'putting up' with each other for a really long time then, don't you think?

"Oh yeah … that's what I was thinking too. A really … really … _fucking_ long time!"

"Uh huh … move over … can you?"

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27


	27. Chapter 27

- Chapter 27 -

"Facing the Fear"

It was a very hard winter.

Snow, ice, rain, sleet and slush; high winds, dark skies and no easy way to traverse any of it. For Gregory House it was a sentence to solitary confinement. Work or home! His condition allowed nothing frivolous or whimsical. No sled riding, snowball fights or even quiet walks in the falling snow.

He hated winter, and his dark moods affected everyone around him, because now they all realized his attitude stemmed more from a deep-seated sorrow, than the former edge of anger and bitterness that had surrounded him like a dark cloud for so many years.

He and Wilson continued to regard each other with a sense of stunned amazement while at work, and their snarky friendship continued quite as it had from the beginning. It wasn't quite as edgy as it used to be, however, and people took heed. And wondered.

Gregg found himself fighting periods of depression and bouts of emotion, when he could feel tears rising to the surface in spite of everything he tried to do to suppress them. At times like these he would take himself to Wilson's office to hide in his friend's private lavatory until they passed, and he could regain control of himself to carry on with the day. He threw himself into his work with a vengeance to combat the alien feelings he could do nothing about, and his periods of sarcastic humor and wry jokes tapered off to a point that nearly the entire hospital staff began to take notice.

House would not attempt to walk with crutches, but kept to the wheelchair in spite of constant urging from Norm Lyons and the Physical Therapy staff to "try to get out of that damned thing!" He blamed the pain, the fear of traumatizing his foot, the lingering stiffness in the shoulder. But he refused to use the crutches. After a time, people began to leave him alone to work through the problem by himself, and he became silent again, angry and uncommunicative. He ate Vicodin as though it were candy.

Only at home in the evenings, in the quiet apartment with Wilson, could he bring himself to talk about things that kept piling up in his mind. These long weeks had been hard on Wilson as well, still deep in his quest to support House through the tough times and still endeavor to remain positive enough to let Gregg know with certainty that he would always be there.

At night they would retire to the big bed in House's room where Wilson would take Gregg's damaged foot into his hands and stroke it gently but firmly, working on advancing an idea of his own.

At first Gregg would gasp with pain … or the _idea_ of pain … just to keep from squirming away from James's touch. Then he progressed to holding his breath. After that he finally managed to withstand the gentle caresses without jumping out of his skin, and Wilson, noticing the small difference, began to knead the muscles and ligaments up toward the calf and the knee.

Gregg accepted it in silence, but he would not make any attempt to place weight on the limb, or even try to touch his foot to the floor. He went everywhere in the apartment on wheels, rolled himself into the shower and did everything he was able to do from the damned wheelchair.

Wilson was afraid, once again, that he would lose more muscle tone in his sound leg, but he said nothing, knowing how close to the surface House's emotions had been of late. Wilson began to suspect, with a gnawing certainty, that there was something deep and constricting that Gregg still wasn't telling him. They did not attempt to make love for the simple reason that they both knew Gregg was not able.

Wilson's reputation at the hospital gradually went from "Panty Peeler" to: "What's-With-Him-Lately?" stage. He did nothing to refute the gossip that ensued. He was willing to wait as long as it took for House's slow progress, knowing that the feelings would still be there any time they might decide to make it physical.

Quietly, surreptitiously and stubbornly, Wilson continued to work on Gregg's foot, and Gregg continued to let him. Even as intelligent and perceptive as he was, House remained unaware that Wilson had a purpose in mind, and a means of achieving it.

The two of them discussed the Benefit Concert that would take place in the spring, and their chances of attending, perhaps even participating in it. Gregg would not commit himself either way, but at least did not completely dismiss the idea. He had to admit that he tended to think kindly of Sonny and Nikki and Rema and the rest of them from time to time, and that it would indeed be pleasant to see them all again.

He and Wilson laughed together over the serendipitous discovery of the hidden money, and the paid-off mortgage, and the likelihood of a big central air conditioning unit being installed at Rez Hospital by the time they next visited there.

House spoke of the big Burmese Mountain Dog, Amiga, and he lamented the death of the courageous mustang, upon whom he'd laid the unlikely moniker of "Ol' Sidewinder". He still suffered pangs of guilt for riding the stallion almost into the ground in their attempt at escape to the hospital for help. No animal, he contended, should ever be forced to suffer like that at the hands of a human being!

He became so passionate about it one evening that Wilson finally had to hold his palm over Gregg's mouth to shut him up. Wilson already knew from Cuddy's phone conversations with Sonny Tse, that the big horse was indeed alive, thanks to the Becketts and Elan Atcitty.

Sonny had asked Cuddy not to tell Gregg about it. When Gregg next visited Arizona, they intended to surprise him with a fully recovered painted stallion, and let the animal walk up to him and muss his hair with a whiskery muzzle, and swipe down his face with an affectionate horsy smooch.

Wilson had agreed to the ruse enthusiastically, and began to divert Gregg's lamentations whenever they came up. All he had to do was convince House to go back to Arizona and play piano at what promised to be a very emotional benefit concert … and be joyfully honored … even though he didn't know that yet … by a grateful Navajo contingent.

Every night, Jim Wilson soothed House's hurt foot, his gentle hands working in a circular motion near the injury site, and then massaging up and down the leg, hoping and hoping … for a miracle.

One night he confronted House about the problem for the second time. "You're aware what's going on with your foot, aren't you?"

House was instantly on the defensive. "What? Why are you asking me about that again? If I knew what was going on, don't you think I'd have done something about it by now?"

"No, probably not. Not if you were scared out of your wits about it, you wouldn't. You'd hide from it as long as you could possibly get away with it." The brown eyes sought to hold the electric blue of House's gaze, but as usual, he'd hit a nerve and House could not meet the look, eye-to-eye.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't! How much longer can you run away from this? I think you have a pinched nerve in your foot! And something else is going on in the area of your knee and the missing quad. It's keeping you from being able to lift it off the floor. It needs to be explored, and you're scared to death they'll have to cut into you again. You'd sooner put up with a leg that won't function than submit to another intrusion. You know nerves don't recover well from injury, and the compression may run deep. An MRI and an ultra-sound will tell us exactly what the problem is, and what to do to correct it. I know how much you despise the thought of more surgery, but if it will get you out of that damned wheelchair and up on crutches with a minimum of pain … please House … if you won't do it for yourself, do it for me!"

House was silent, the fathomless eyes dark with dread and apprehension. "I can't," he finally choked. "I just can't."

"Yes … you can! I'm not afraid of your disability, and I'm not afraid to look at your ugly fucking leg. I'm not going _anywhere_, which you already know … and there's nothing you can do that could possibly chase me away! I'd be right beside you in the OR if you needed me to be. Or I wouldn't come near the hospital if you'd rather I do that instead. But you've _got_ to have the exploratory surgery! You already know what the MRI and ultra-sound will show. You've known for a long time, and I know too. You're not the best diagnostician on the East Coast for nothing ..."

"You know what?" House finally said, with a huge put-upon sigh.

"What?"

"Your mouth flaps around worse than a duck's dingleberries! You make more noise than a whole coop full of goddamn chickens … and you make my ass tired!"

"You telling me you'll do the tests? And schedule the surgery right after that?"

"Nah, not really … I'm just telling you I can't _wait_ to spend more time in the goddamn hospital with my leg hanging in the air … and I need to shut you the-hell up before you gnaw my freaking ear off, 'Ratchet Jaw'!"

"Gregory House, you have to be the biggest pain in the ass I ever met in my life!"

"Lucky you … although you do have a nice ass …"

00000000

Further tests pinpointed the problem; a pinched nerve deep in his ankle, along with another tiny speck of mesquite wood inflaming the tissue in his foot, forming a nodule that would have made the problem worse over time if it had not been located and corrected. The problem of the weakness in his leg had been compounded by the traumatic injury to his knee. Only time and gentle exercise might strengthen it.

They scheduled the surgery for two weeks hence.

Gregg House spent Christmas week in the hospital.

Instead of being thankful, he spent the entire week bitching. So what else was new?

00000000

He recuperated at home, and two weeks after New Years was actually up on crutches with Wilson close at his side. It was difficult and he was clumsy, but the pain and fear of pain was finally diminishing. He was beginning to touch down lightly on the ball of his foot, and entertaining thoughts of being able to wear a shoe. The crippled leg remained stiff and weak, and Gregg still had to twist from the hip to encourage it to move forward, even minimally. The effort always exhausted him, and he began to fear it would never strengthen again.

By the end of January, House was back at work again, and able to wear a sock and a soft-sole moccasin on his right foot. He walked with arm canes and his movements were slow. He still to drag the crippled leg when he walked, but he could see an improvement in the foot. The chronic pain had not diminished, sadly, but he'd already known that such would continue to be the case, and he lived with it. His Vicodin bottle wore the material thin in the pocket of his jacket, but he could live with that too. He went back to working on the difficult cases and giving the Ducklings an excruciatingly hard time, because he knew they loved it!

He sparred with Lisa Cuddy on a daily basis, and was even seen to smile on occasion. Things went pretty much back to normal. Within a few weeks he and Wilson went to her and confided their domestic status.

"I know …" she finally said, her blue eyes softening. "I figured that out a long time ago. You really do deserve each other!" And then she dismissed their confession as minor news. The smile on her uplifted face suddenly turned angelic.

_Never give Cuddy the upper hand! She will hit you over the head with it!_

"Oh … and by the way … while I have you both here; what would you like me to tell Sonny Tse concerning the music you'll be using at his benefit concert in April?"

00000000

At the beginning of February, Cuddy put in a call to Rez Hospital.

The ensuing conversation was a testament to the support being offered to the struggling medical center in the middle of the Navajo Reservation, and to the resources of the global medical community.

"Lisa, listen to this!" Sonny Tse was like a little boy in the scope of his enthusiasm. "Tell me if you know any of these people!"

She listened, sometimes smiling, sometimes drawing a quick breath of delight. She knew some of them as friends and colleagues, others only by reputation.

Sonny read from what was obviously a stack of acceptance letters a foot high:

"Drs. Jeffrey Geiger and Kate Austin from Chicago Hope, Chicago, Illinois

"Dr. John Becker, New York City

"Dr. Clint Cassidy, Westberry Clinic, New York City

"Dr. Derek Shepherd, Seattle Grace Hospital, Washington

"Dr. Doug Ross, Seattle, Washington

"Drs. Kerry Weaver and Eric Benton, Cook County General, Chicago

"Dr. Janet Frazier, Major, USAF, Cheyenne Mountain Complex

"Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard, NCIS, U.S. Navy

"Dr. Mark Sloan, Community General, Los Angeles, California

"Lisa, can you believe this? And this is just the first batch of acceptance letters that arrived. It's _still_ only February!

"Soon Chang Corporation has pledged us a million dollars. The Navajo Tribal Police took up a collection and sent us a check for $500.00. And the sweet couple that runs the Tu-Sandies motel sent a check for $200.00. I'm overwhelmed already, and it's still two months to the concert date!"

"Well!" Cuddy exclaimed, it sounds wonderful. I've already arranged for time off for that weekend in April, and Dr. Foreman will come along with me. We would both like to see all of you again under much more pleasant circumstances, so you can expect us both to attend … Oh … and by the way … you will be very glad to hear that you can add a piano player and a guitar player to your program."

"Please tell me you're talking about Gregg and Jimmy?" She could swear she heard the Indian War Whoop at the edge of Sonny's voice.

"Of course! Who did you think I meant?" She was laughing.

"They're both … okay?"

"They're okay, Sonny. They're _very_ okay … although Dr. House, probably, will never walk again without crutches. His crippled leg was so badly damaged, and he's fortunate to have come this far. But he looks good. His shoulder is completely healed, and he's put on a little weight … they both have, as a matter of fact … and they said I was to tell you 'hello'."

"You don't know how happy that makes me, Lisa! And when you come out here, you must all stay at the renovated guest quarters in the hospital. You're going to love the place when you see it. It's amazing what you can do with some paint, some varnish, some sheet metal and lumber, and some elbow grease. And we incorporated many of the things we learned from you …"

She giggled. "Sonny, I can't wait!"

They rang off with plans to visit again, almost carved in stone.

Lisa Cuddy rose from the chair behind her desk and thrust a clenched fist into the air in front of her in a gesture of victory. Just wait 'til she told Eric about _this!_

"_Yes-s-s!"_

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33


	28. Chapter 28

- Chapter 28 –

"April in Arizona"

"When It's Springtime in the Rockies …"

When it's springtime _anywhere_! It means there's a break in the weather, a break in the gloom, a break in ice and snow, and best of all, a break from closed-in apartments and stogy hospitals and Diagnostician's and Oncologist's dreary offices.

The sidewalks of Princeton were clear. So were the streets. For the first time in months the city's paved walkways were safe for a disabled man on crutches. "Let's go over to McCarthy's for lunch," House suggested to Wilson in a tone of voice just below demand-mode.

Wilson sighed. He'd known the suggestion was going to come sooner or later. He'd have preferred later. Had been cringing from it ever since the last of the snow melted and left things reasonably clear outdoors. "Are you certain you want to take the chance of walking that far? I can always go around and get the car …"

"Dammit, Wilson, the restaurant isn't even a block away! Christ! You'd almost think somebody around here was crippled or something. It's a … block. Away!"

Wilson shrugged, scrubbing the doubtful expression off his face with the palm of his hand. "Okay … okay … you stubborn idiot. Don't get your knickers in a knot!"

House wrinkled his face. "That's _my_ line!" He scoffed.

"Not anymore it isn't," Wilson said and grinned. "The owner gave up his copyright when he started hanging with me."

The two had grown closer over the course of the long winter. They had found a way to consummate their feelings for one another in a way that did not leave House doubled up in pain, and it had given them a new sense of freedom. They did not share the news of their life together with anyone except Lisa Cuddy and Billy Travis. But those two had suspected something for a long time before being officially informed.

Today was St. Patrick's Day, and McCarthy's Pub would be jumpin' with the "wearin' o' the green." House was wearing a green tee shirt beneath his jacket, and Wilson was decked out with another of his hideous green neckties that made his companion half bilious just to look at it.

The two of them left from the lobby outside Cuddy's office a little after 11:00 a.m. in order to get there in plenty of time to reserve a booth. Gregg's foot had healed pretty well by this time, although it was scarred still, and ached in inclement weather. He'd gone back to wearing his fancy sneakers, although he kept the laces of the right one loose, and depended a lot on Wilson to help slip his foot in and out of it.

Bending down, or bending in _any_ direction, for that matter, to tend to shoes, was a chore. His leg had seen no further change, and he was stuck with crutches because there was no evidence of returning strength. His leg still tended to drag, and the continuing chronic pain kept House reaching for the Vicodin bottle.

Wilson protected him fiercely and did his best to remain unobtrusive about it, and House returned the kindness by pretending not to notice. Wilson's bulldog attitude in the face of even the slightest threat to House's safety was a study in dedication. It was just one more concession in a long line of things they did for one another.

When friends, acquaintances and co-workers finally came to realize that that's the way it was between them, the usual gossip about the situation ran its course and died down again, and things returned to normal. At least with Wilson it did. People still tended to sidestep quickly when House bared his teeth, but that was nothing new, and some things _never_ changed!

They sat in the booth at McCarthy's and ate Irish biscuits dragged through Mulligan Stew, and toasted St. Patrick with green 7-Up, rather than green beer, because they both had to go back to work. Wilson would not let House drink anything stronger than that if House had to walk somewhere.

Sometimes their situation provoked eye-rolling smirks from some of the other patrons in the pub, but most of them understood, and even the roughest of McCarthy's regulars reserved a soft spot for the crippled "Grizzly Doc" and his sidekick, the skinny Jewish guy, who was not exactly "Gentle Ben" when he was in protective mode with his smart-assed buddy.

00000000

Back at the hospital, Lisa Cuddy was on the phone again with Sonny Tse at Rez Hospital in Arizona. Things were coming together rapidly for the Benefit Concert at huge Gammage Auditorium in Scottsdale. Sonny, breathless as usual, was telling Cuddy about the latest developments, which were rocking the entire state, and the fact that the uproar and excitement were quickly threatening to explode right out of his hands.

Bonnie Raitt and Alan Jackson had both committed to be part of the entertainment, and posters were all over the place, advertising the event as being the "Biggest Gathering of Musically Talented Physicians" in the entire United States. Telephone exchanges had been arranged for as call-ins for donations, and volunteers were being solicited to man them.

Lisa Cuddy had to laugh at the idea of volunteers answering telephones on the stage of a benefit concert. "Sonny, my friend," she finally said, "I can't sing, and I can't dance, and I can't do an 'Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy' routine … but what I can do is answer a really _mean_ telephone! Do you think Eric Foreman and I might offer our services in this manner?"

Sonny's deep laughter echoed heartily from the receiver. "Wow!" He exclaimed. "You're on!"

Dr. Mark Sloan from L. A. got his picture on the concert poster because he looked a lot like Dick VanDyke. Mark was scheduled to sing a few songs and do a short soft-shoe routine.

Jeffrey Geiger from Chicago, the renowned Cardiologist, got his picture on the poster because he bore a slight resemblance to singer-actor, Mandy Patinkin. Jeffrey would play piano and sing in the same style in which Mandy usually did it … and the hype went on.

House and Wilson's photos were on the poster also, because they were the ones being honored for their heroism in the face of danger, and because they had consented to perform on piano and guitar … maybe even sing a selection or two. The fact that they were both oblivious to the adulation being given in their honor, was entirely beside the point.

After Sonny told her all of this, Lisa Cuddy was laughing with delight. "We certainly don't dare let the boys see the posters then, do we? They really have no clue all this is going to happen, and they're probably going to break my neck when they find out."

Sonny laughed in return, and then iced the cake with another piece of incredible information. "Do you remember me telling you about Robert McKittrick, the CEO of Soon Chang, who I kind of blackmailed into flying Jimmy and Gregg home?"

"Yes-s …?"

"Well … I have to give the guy a lot of credit. I thought he would make a huge deal out of the fact that he did that … splash it all over the media. But Lisa … he didn't. And he called me Friday morning to offer to send the plane again to bring all of you out here, and then fly you home again after the concert, or whenever it is you need to leave.

"Gregg may require rest for a few days after. McKittrick told me he didn't want anything to happen that might reinjure Dr. House, and he was going to make sure of it. I'm finding out that he's a pretty square dude.

"I'm continually amazed by this whole affair! It's mushrooming to the point that I almost don't have time to be a doctor anymore … I'm beginning to feel more like a talent scout. And I'm already so tired I don't know which way is up … even though it's a good kind of tired."

"I wish we could be out there to help you." Cuddy told him. "It's going to be wonderful, and Rez Hospital can only benefit. Wouldn't it be great if it became an annual thing? You could ask the ones who are here this year to invite their colleagues to take part next year. How would that strike you?"

For a moment there was only silence. Then Sonny laughed. "You're not going to believe this … but Nikki and Rema and Nola and Oscar mentioned the same idea to me at breakfast this morning! I guess they're really getting into the show-business side of this.

"But all I could think of at the time, was that I wanted to slap 'em silly!"

They laughed together, and hung up. But the afterthoughts at both ends of the country rang with possibilities …

00000000

The Learjet sent by Robert McKittrick of Soon Chang, landed at Princeton Airport the morning of April 5th. The pilot, known only as "Ron" bailed out and waved, ready to get them into the air.

Gregory House, not in the best of moods, sat in the ominous black wheelchair, throwing blue-eyed sparks at Wilson's unruffled back.

"No way!" Wilson had yelled at him earlier. "You won't be flying out there in anything but your damned wheelchair! So lay off the water and the soda pop and anything else you might have designs on, and be sure to take a nice long pee before they put you on board!"

"Well, up yours, Schweetheart!" House grumped in his best Humphrey Bogart accent. But he knew Wilson was right. When _wasn't_ he in such matters? When it came to House's safety, Wilson had no higher priority, and Gregg knew the subject was best left alone. He didn't have to like it though.

The trip was fast by anyone's standards. They had a tailwind all the way, and Ron maintained an altitude of 30,000 feet, sliding into a slipstream that felt like ocean waves. They landed on the Flagstaff runway at 2:00 in the afternoon.

Sonny Tse had considered meeting them at the airport with only the Hummer, but later decided it would be much better for Gregg if he were to be given the opportunity to lie down with his leg propped up during the trip to Rez. So he sent Tuba City's big Cadillac ambulance as well.

Sonny and Nikki greeted House and Wilson, who would ride together in the ambulance, then loaded Cuddy and Foreman gleefully into the Hummer and stashed everyone's luggage in back. The ride to Rez took about three hours, give or take, about the same amount of time they'd spent in the air. Gregg took a Vicodin to tame the buzz in his leg and catnapped most of the way.

This road trip certainly had not been anything like the last one!

Wilson sprawled in the black wheelchair, squeezed in beside the gurney, with his long legs and Roy Rogers cowboy boots propped on the EMT bench watching Gregg as he slept, and enjoying the smooth vibration-free ride of the big vehicle beneath him. He must have nodded off also, because the next time he became aware of his surroundings, it was 6:05 p.m. The Cadillac had slowed and they were pulling up to the rear ramp of Rez Hospital. Already, he was hearing the buzz of a dozen excited voices.

They were greeted like royalty with high-fives and "Hi Jimmy!" and "Hi Gregg! Good to see you!" from everyone who was not on shift and had the time to crowd around as they disembarked.

Amiga was there too, tail fanning the air as she walked politely up to Gregg House and placed her head atop his hand on the crutch grip. He buried his fingers in her shining coat and pulled her ears affectionately, and she looked up at him in adoration with a wide doggy smile.

Cuddy and Foreman looked at each other in astonishment at the dog's affinity for their chief diagnostician, and at the cheerful informality of this place; the total willingness of everyone to welcome them with open arms, no matter that they'd never met each other before.

House was assisted back into the wheelchair, his leg upraised and padded with pillows to keep it from harm. Then he and Wilson were surrounded by well-wishers, marveling at how healthy they looked after surviving their frightening ordeal in the desert.

Nola and Chaz and Oscar were there … and Rema of course … who rushed forward to hug Wilson fiercely, calling him "Beautiful Child", evoking laughter from everyone when she took his face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the forehead.

Wilson's face turned a deep shade of red.

House was laughing too, and then she turned to him and knelt at his side to take his hand in both of hers. "My sweet Gray Fox!" She said softly. "My _beautiful_ Gray Fox! You have no idea how happy I am to see you alive and well …"

Her voice trailed off when she looked down at his leg. "They did you no favors, did they, dear?" She cupped his face also in the palms of her hands, and was not surprised when he turned his head into it to kiss her fingers gently.

"I'm fine," he said, and smiled in a manner that had Cuddy and Foreman gasping in shock. "You'd be surprised," he assured her with a flick of his eyes in Wilson's direction. "I really am … fine … Tinker Bell."

They stood outside for a time, looking about at the changes in the place. The perimeter fence had been replaced with kiln-dried, treated-wood twin palings. All the damaged chicken wire, highway plastic and dog-yard fencing was gone. It looked neat and clean and very rustic.

The old building looked as though it had been sand blasted. The bricks were clean, the wood insets painted a fresh white, and the old wooden shutters scraped clean and painted hunter green. They were astounded.

Foreman and Cuddy had never visited the place before, but were duly impressed by its inviting appearance and the big wooden sign at the entrance: "Rez Hospital: Established 2000, Suni Tse, M. D., Nicole Asdza, M. D."

Sonny and Nikki returned from parking the Hummer. "What do you say we go inside and get out of the sun?" Sonny suggested. "We have Central Air now, you know, and a completely upgraded elevator. I think Gregg should be given a chance to rest from his trip. Your room is ready for you."

House frowned up at the tall Navajo, but did not protest, revealing without words that his leg was proclaiming loudly that it was not happy.

"I'll take him up, Sonny," Wilson said. "Thanks, Redskin Bro."

"You're welcome, Paleface Bro." Sonny grinned. "When Gregg is ready in a couple of hours, we'll have supper and spend some time getting Eric and Lisa acquainted with my gang of coconspirators!"

Wilson smiled back and placed a hand gently on House's shoulder. Then he turned the black wheelchair toward the elevator. Amiga followed a few feet behind. No one called her away.

00000000

Wilson came downstairs alone a little past 8:00 in the evening. "I'm sorry," he said, "but Gregg was in some pain. He couldn't relax, and I ended up giving him a shot. Right now, he's out like a light, and will probably remain so the rest of the night. I know there's so much last-minute stuff to do before the concert, and tomorrow will be a busy day. He asked me to apologize for the inconvenience, but he wants to be okay in time for the show. Amiga's up there with him, by the way."

"She'll keep an eye on him," Sonny said. "With his health the way it is now, he needs the rest, and we should talk about the concert awhile, I guess.

"This whole thing came about because of you and Gregg, y'know. It was all your idea. You started this whole ball rolling, and the thing took off from there. Everybody in Arizona knows about Gregg's ride through the desert, and how you got yourself shot trying to defend him in the Chindi House. I guess it won't hurt to let you in on some of the hoopla, since you can't do much to change it now!" His handsome face held a grin that reached from ear to ear.

Wilson frowned. "I'm not … following …"

"Hey Oscar! Bring one of those posters in here, will you?"

Oscar answered from the bat-wing doors to the kitchen. "Sure thing." He disappeared for a moment, and then returned with a large rectangle of cardboard in his hands. He brought it across and laid it face-up on an empty table.

Wilson stared, along with everyone else, uncomprehending for a few moments. Then his jaw dropped. He walked over to the poster and looked down. His own smiling face … and Gregg's … looked back.

"Oh-h-h …!"

Laughter surrounded him. Lisa Cuddy and Eric Foreman left their chairs to approach and stand beside him. "This is fantastic!" Cuddy said. Beside her, Wilson was nearly speechless. Then he gasped, looking at the other faces gracing the poster. "Jeff!" He said. "That's Jeffrey Geiger! Oh my God! This is wonderful! House will have kittens!"

He looked at the other three faces. "You have Bonnie Raitt coming here? And Alan Jackson? Oh my God! And Dick VanDyke?? It's unbelievable!"

"Take a closer look at Dick VanDyke!" Sonny said happily. "His real name is Dr. Mark Sloan, and he's from L. A. He not only looks like Dick VanDyke, but he sounds like him! Wait'll you hear!"

Wilson and Cuddy and Foreman were laughing, shaking their heads. Not only would a host of medical people with musical talent be performing in a choral ensemble to open the show, but also, the hosting orchestra would be the Phoenix Philharmonic. The featured performer of the evening would be Nicole Asdza on the Native American Flute, playing her own composition entitled "The Eagle", plus other Native American music she had been playing since she was a little girl.

Bonnie Raitt and Alan Jackson would sing two songs each and then team for a duet. After that, they would help answer the phones for donor pledges and hang around to sign autographs afterwards.

Drs. James Wilson and Gregory House were listed as solo and duet on piano, guitar and vocals, playing and singing old favorites. They would close the evening's program with a vocal duet: John Denver's beautiful and haunting "Ponies"

"Wow!" Wilson exclaimed. "I'm not even sure if I remember all the lyrics to 'Ponies' anymore. I haven't heard it since Gregg played it for me when he first got his iPod. I remember the riffs, but it's been a really long time since I've played it!"

"Oh, he'll remember it!" Cuddy assured him. "I've heard him play it in his office from time to time. He'll lead you through it."

"Wait! There's more," Sonny said softly. "While the two of you are playing it and singing it, there will be something else happening onstage that neither of you knows about yet … and the timing has to be exactly right, or the whole thing could go bust."

Wilson frowned. "Care to let me in on the secret?"

Sonny shook his head. "Can't. But if it works out the way I think it will, it will bring down the house! Trust me."

What more could anyone possibly say after that? The evening ended with pizza and ice cream and camaraderie. Wilson was the first to leave. His compulsion to check on House was irresistible, and he also wanted to take a few minutes to make a fuss over the dog.

00000000

Gammage Auditorium in Scottsdale was a huge facility with seating for 3,000 people. It was one of the last designs by Frank Lloyd Wright, completed in 1964. It had a round roof supported by fifty columns, and two ramps for pedestrians that led to and from the parking lots. From a distance it resembled a giant sandstone wedding cake with ornate scalloped outline and serene landscaping with a sculpted reflecting pool and manicured lawn.

Into this beautiful setting, vehicles dropped off the participants of Rez Hospital's Benefit Concert, and soon the sounds of laughter and music began to hang in the warm, dry spring air.

Friday passed in a frenzy of activity. TV and Newspaper coverage was a living presence throughout the auditorium. Members of the Philharmonic set up their microphones and acoustic system, and arranged risers onstage for its members. Then the chairs were set up. The xylophone, marimba, harp and chimes were brought in and assembled. Trap drums, cymbals, high-hats, basses and tympanis were carried across the back and arranged with meticulous care.

Off to the side of the auditorium, a large black dog watched the proceedings from a doggy bed that her master had brought along especially for her. Amiga wasn't lonely, however. Everyone in the place, it seemed, stopped by to lay a hand on her wide head, or stroke her silky coat and offer a word or two in dog-talk. From time to time, Sonny or Nikki or Rema or even James Wilson hooked up her leash and took her out for a "walk".

A shining black Yamaha grand piano was brought in on a rolling platform, lifted onto the stage with block and tackle and tuned to A440. Lighting systems were being tested, and electrical cables taped tight to the floor. Along the far side of the stage, a bank of office telephones on a long narrow table were installed and tested; no ringing bells, only red flashing lights.

Rehearsals went on, hour after hour, routines perfected and old acquaintances renewed with hand shaking and laughter. Convention goers from the summer before gathered in the auditorium, and additional prominent physicians filled the seats of the first three rows.

Gregory House and James Wilson were the center of attention, even more so than the two celebrities who'd arrived Friday evening.

Gregg appeared among them on his crutches, and was more than aware that he was being baby sat by damn near everyone with a pair of eyes. It pissed him off no end, but he guessed he should be a little more stoic than angry, so he put on a contrived mask of "courageous cripple" and charmed the hell out of them. He had seen the big posters by this time, and was beginning to wonder why he'd been kept in the dark so long by everyone involved, but when he asked questions, no one seemed to know what the hell he was talking about. This pissed him off further.

When Jeff Geiger arrived near dinnertime and bore down on Gregg with his hearty demeanor and hearty voice and hearty everything else, the two of them came together in a bear hug that Wilson was afraid would break Gregg's bones. But it didn't.

Geiger was a Godsend when it came to distracting House with witty repartee and silly stories from his practice at Chicago Hope, and they went to the back of the auditorium together to shoot the breeze in companionable privacy.

When asked by one of the theater staff gofers if he would like some time to rehearse, Geiger looked up into the face of the questioner and told the young man, straight-faced, that he only rehearsed those songs he had completely forgotten, and would probably end up reading the music and lyrics from a piece of toilet paper he kept in his pocket. The kid shrugged, rolled his eyes, shook his head, spun on his heel and left.

"Wow!" Geiger scoffed. "Wonder if he belongs to SAG!"

"They might be keeping him around for comic relief," Gregg commented with a straight face.

When the orchestra took the stage to rehearse Nikki Asdza's "The Eagle", both men sat in awe as the rich tones of the native flute filled the hall with mellow resonance. When the piece concluded, there was not a sound in the place, but shortly thereafter, everyone who had been working backstage and around the auditorium on other last-minute projects, dropped what they'd been doing to give approval with applause, cat calls, whistles and shouts. "I never heard anything _like_ that!" Geiger exclaimed. Then he returned his attention to House. "You and Jimmy are going to do something too, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Gregg admitted. "They kinda tagged us to do a couple of things. Mainly, I think, because right now we're notorious as the slobs who got ourselves shot up in the middle of the desert by a bunch of thugs … and we got our names in the paper. Usually, I don't go for that kind of crap, but Sonny's hospital needs funding … and if our ugly mugs, showing up onstage, help with that … then it's okay. It's a one-shot and done. Anyhow, it's good to see you again. How ya been?"

"I've been fine. Life has been good. Alicia is fifteen now, and she's beautiful. She's in school and is going on a class field trip this weekend, or I'd have brought her with me. I've been thinking about retiring early … getting out of the rat race … spending some time at my cabin in West Virginia.

"I don't know, Gregg. It sounds wonderful, but then another case comes up, and I'm up to my elbows again." Jeffrey quieted for a minute and watched as House hitched about in his seat, trying to stretch out his leg in a place where there was not enough room. "Still fighting that damn chronic pain, aren't you?"

House smiled, but it was thin. "Yeah. Still! Hurts like hell sometimes. I've got to get up and move around, okay? Walk with me. I need to stretch so I don't knot up. Then I need to find a place where I can hitch it up." He dry swallowed a Vicodin quickly.

Geiger was already on his feet, handing House his crutches. He held up a stiff forearm and Gregg pulled himself to his feet. "Okay?"

House nodded. "Yeah."

They walked. Slowly. Geiger pretended to amble aimlessly, all the while watching his companion like a hawk for any sign of distress. He had to give Gregg credit. He had learned to hitch his hips to the left when he took a step, and the crippled leg moved ahead more from the weight of its own momentum than from any increase in mobility or strength.

"You doin' any PT?" Jeff asked in an offhand manner.

"No. Not anything official. But Wilson helps me exercise at night. Works with what's left of the knee … that kind of stuff. But it's harder on him than me, because he's such a bleeding heart. I scream in pain and he cries …"

Geiger turned and regarded House with a calculating look. "Are you trying to tell me you two finally …?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's about fuckin' time!"

Ice blue eyes bored into Geiger's brown ones in an attitude of haughty disdain. Then both men burst out laughing. "Thanks," Gregg said.

Ten minutes later they found an old club chair with a footstool in one of the backstage offices. Gregg tossed the crutches and sat down heavily, leaned back and raised his leg carefully onto the stool.

Moments later, both men looked up when they sensed movement in the doorway. Jeff Geiger looked a little puzzled, but when Gregory House's face broke into a wide grin for the second time that day, Jeff figured it was okay.

Amiga walked slowly across the room and sat down at Gregg's feet. Gently she placed her great head on his knee with a soft doggy whimper of love. Gregg placed his hand on her head and left it there. He looked up at Geiger and rolled his eyes.

"This is one baby sitter," he said, "that I don't mind at all."

00000000

Gregg and James were the last to rehearse their music that night. The piano was tuned on the money, and when Wilson struck the G cord on the guitar, the two instruments blended as one.

After rehearsal when everything had been tweaked, adjusted, arranged, straightened, coordinated, squared, balanced, regulated, tightened, bolted down, repaired, fine-tuned, renovated, polished, calibrated and brought on line …

… everyone in attendance left the locking-up stuff to the auditorium's maintenance staff,

and migrated to the biggest all-night coffee house in town.

Weary, droopy, drained and wasted, they bought sandwiches and cold drinks and discussed everything they could think of that they might have missed. But there was nothing left to do. If the venture wouldn't fly from the runway they had prepared for it tonight, then they would ride it roughshod as it limped along into the annals of cosmic misadventure, and still congratulate themselves for having done their best.

A silent caravan of cars, trucks and SUVs trekked along the streets of Scottsdale to the Radisson Hotel and parked their vehicles neatly and quietly in the parking lot.

No one wasted time before hitting the sheets.

Tomorrow was coming up fast!

Amiga slept that night as close to Gregg's bed as she could get, and he went to sleep with fingers entwined in her silky coat.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

46


	29. Chapter 29

- Chapter 29 –

"Ponies"

There was nothing more they could do.

It was sink-or-swim, and the Phoenix Philharmonic Orchestra was center stage, sheet music rustling on music stands, and the usual jubilant cacophony of instruments tuning up. House lights were full on, and the huge auditorium was filling rapidly.

Participants milled about backstage, some still memorizing lines from printed sheets of lyrics; neckties and hemlines being smoothed, makeup checked in mirrors, final puffs of hair spray being administered, and the electric buzz of footlight jitters apparent everywhere.

Zero hour was fast approaching and the impromptu gathering of the doctors who had volunteered for the chorus were sorting themselves out by voice range and falling all over each others' feet behind the closed stage curtain. They called themselves the "Melody Medics" and laughed at the silliness of it, but it was all in fun, so the sillier the better, right?

Amiga, as always, sat at the fringes of the stage, silent and alert, watching people milling around like frightened cattle. Passing hands still paused amid all the excitement to touch her head or pet her silky coat. She had become their talisman, their good luck charm. She reveled in it, but from time to time her eyes darted about, searching for signs of Gregory House …

Finally everyone got themselves in line and sorted into the correct groups, and things got serious. The conductor walked onstage with his baton, black tuxedo making him look distinguished and professional. He stepped up to the podium, raised the baton and clicked it twice on his music stand. Quiet descended over the orchestra members like the calm before a storm. They came to attention, instruments poised, faces expectant as they pinned their eyes on their leader.

The curtain began to curtsy open with a flourish of heavy fabric, and the house lights dimmed. Latecomers, and smokers who had lingered outside, hurried to their seats and the huge audience hushed. It was 8:00 p.m.

The conductor stood motionless for a final moment, elbows up, graceful white-gloved hands drawing the attention of every eye:

"O Say Can You See …" The audience came to its feet with a stampede of shoes on the floor and a rustle of fancy garments.

In the front row of the "Merry Medics", Rema Marks, Sonny Tse, Nikki Asdza, Mark Sloan, Jeffrey Geiger and Eric Benton, presented an eclectic tableau of Americana. The Melting Pot was right here, face-on, in this huge building, and it threatened to run over, splash across the stage and cascade all the way past the footlights to seek a new level among the people who had come together to be entertained in the manner of … they knew not what.

Whatever this special singing group lacked in vocal training was more than made up for in enthusiasm. The rest of the songs in their repertoire followed the same vein as the first: "America the Beautiful," "The Saints Go Marching In", "Small World", "This Land is Your Land" …

When they finished their set and filed offstage to take their places in the audience, applause followed them until the last person had taken his seat. Sonny, Nikki, Jeffrey and Mark lingered behind. Sonny and Nikki acted as Masters of Ceremony, sparring with each other about the misadventures of getting the program together, along with anecdotes about Rez Hospital, and introducing the acts that followed. Unintentionally nervous, and therefore funny, they brought forth laughter from the audience and appreciation from their fellow physicians.

Mark Sloan drew gasps from the large crowd when he did his soft-shoe routine and sang "My Buddy":

"Oh My God! He really _does_ look like Dick VanDyke! Even _sounds_ like him!"

Bonnie Raitt and Alan Jackson were given spotlights of their own when they performed "Angel From Montgomery" … "A Lot About Livin'" … and together: "One Day at A Time". They did a six-song arc and then turned to the phone banks, joining Lisa Cuddy, Eric Foreman and a few prominent locals who were pleased to rub elbows with such celebrities. The applause followed them long after their music had faded away.

Jeffrey Geiger got a spotlight of his own also when he did his version of : "When the Red Red Robin Comes a-Bee-Bop-a-Boppin' Along," in the style of Mandy Patinkin. Always a bit of a showman, Jeffrey played it for all it was worth, and feigned a moment of obsequious humility when screams and whistles from the crowd completely drowned out the accompaniment of the orchestra.

Nikki Asdza's _Eagle_ brought a hush to the auditorium, and tears to the eyes of out-of-towners and others who had never heard the like before. When she finished, it was like the roar of the walls caving in.

And so it went.

Backstage, Wilson and House sat together and relaxed with their collective ear tuned to the happenings out front. Amiga had found them together, and she sat by their feet enjoying both men's hands tangled affectionately in her thick coat. Smiling, they began to realize that Wilson's Brain Child of seven months before had borne some interesting fruit of its own, and in time would probably burst forth into an annual celebration.

This was a good thing, they agreed, bringing Arizona's general population and the Navajo people together, giving both the boost they deserved in the form of Sonny Tse's intelligence, grace, hard work and generosity. The money they raised might even be secondary to the good will it generated. The Melting Pot was almost full to overflowing already, and it was obvious from the screams, applause and laughter drifting back from the stage and the audience, that the crowd was loving it.

Then, at last, it was their turn. Amiga watched them rise and move toward the backstage entrance.

The curtain was closed when they went onto the stage. Gregg had asked that the large gathering not be a party to his difficulty in walking across in front of the orchestra and getting himself settled at the piano. Some things were better for not having been put on display. When he limped across the stage on his crutches, followed closely by James Wilson, both men could hear the murmurs of encouragement from people as they passed by in front of the instrumentalists:

"Knock 'em dead, Gregg!" "Give 'em hell, Jimmy!" "Way to go, guys! Break a leg!!"

Gregg eased down carefully onto the piano bench, stretching his leg in front of him, then placed the crutches out of sight behind the bench. He paused a second to turn and stare over his shoulder at the members of the orchestra and stick his tongue out for that last remark.

They tittered appreciatively.

Then he positioned himself on the bench and caressed the keys of the Yamaha with long, slender, well-practiced fingers. Jimmy sat down on an old studio chair and nestled his beautiful Gibson Acoustic across a slightly lifted knee. He looked off across the stage and gave a wink and a slight nod.

The curtains swept open, and a hush enveloped the auditorium:

00000000

PONIES:

The guitar player begins the intro, finger-picking softly, fingertips scraping across the strings as he ventures further into the song, searching for the melody with grace notes and

chords.

His mouth brushes the bud of the microphone near his lips, and you can hear him as he begins to hum along. Then, soft brown eyes rising slowly to the face of his companion, the piano player, their eyes meet in a harmony of hearts and minds as the piano ends the counterpoint and takes up the melody.

They sing, softly at first, then gaining in strength, their voices blending in a pleasing harmony, and the song becomes a soaring testimony of glory and freedom:

"_Somewhere out on the prairie_

_Is the greatest cowboy that's ever been …_

_And when he lays his hands upon the ponies,_

_They shudder with an understanding skin._

"_And he says, Ponies … now ponies don't you worry._

_I have not come to steal your fire away …_

_I want to fly with you across the sunrise_

_And discover what begins each shining day …"_

The orchestra becomes dominant for a moment, overriding the soft strains with violins, woodwinds and faint percussion.

The crowd is mesmerized. Some of them experience lightness in mind and spirit. Some feel the sting of tears.

The orchestra goes back to pianissimo and the piano and guitar take the melody again.

Twin voices blend once more and move into the second strain, melody and harmony in a marriage of longing and fulfillment. It is not only the song that speaks the feeling:

"_When the storm clouds in the west are quickly gathering,_

And the ponies, they run wild there before it rains … 

_You'll see their sleek dark bodies brightly gleaming,_

_You know the fire is flying through their brains …_

"_And he says, Ponies … now ponies don't you worry._

_I have not come to steal your fire away …_

_I want to fly with you across the sunrise_

_And discover what begins each shining day …"_

From the wings backstage comes a flurry of curtain. A man emerges. He is Navajo, and he is clad in full ceremonial dress, and the music tapers off to a lullaby. There is only the soft strumming of the guitar and the celebration of piano coming forte.

The curtain vibrates in a shimmer of movement, and a tall, painted stallion steps beyond it on quiet, unshod hooves. He is wary; nostrils flared, small ears thrust forward at rapt attention. The man leads him slowly across the stage in front of the orchestra, gentle hand near quivering muzzle, calming all fears with a soft word. The musical instruments of the orchestra are all hushed now, and racked.

The stallion begins to prance as the guitar trails off and the gentle-faced musician looks up and smiles tearfully at the wild beauty of the animal, the quiet dignity of the Navajo Warrior, and the intense beat of his own heart. The horse and the man continue to approach on silent feet.

It is only the piano playing now, its master still lost in the melody which dances upward and away from his fingers on the keys … and the magic of the moment. Injun Magic …

The auditorium is gripped in silence, but you can hear a few sharp intakes of breath; sounds of surprise, delight, fantasy. They have never seen anything like this before.

The horse and the man have halted just behind the piano player's back. They are motionless, and the painted horse cocks his ears toward the melody.

The pianist looks up from the keyboard, sensing … something. His jaw drops open, and his blue eyes widen in a telling moment of disbelief.

He smiles, and the instant of innocent joy removes a decade of pain from his face.

The crowd is on its feet …

And the stallion reaches out his long neck and nuzzles the piano player's ear with his whiskered, horsy lips, then continues up the back of the man's head with a warm, moist whoosh of breath, and plants a horsy kiss in the snarl of mussed brown hair. The piano player smiles again, and wipes his cheek on the shoulder of his shirt …

A smattering of appreciative laughter floats up from the audience. It is holding its collective breath.

The guitar player lifts his instrument and slides out of his chair, taking himself and the guitar and the chair away from the piano, toward stage right. The Navajo Warrior follows on silent feet, leaving the horse and the man alone out there with each other.

The man at the piano sits very still. His eyes are widening, glistening with sudden moisture, hardly daring to believe what his senses are telling him. His chin lowers to his chest with uncharacteristic humility.

"Sidewinder!" Somehow he knows.

As he has always known!

Again, the orchestra takes up the melody that was suddenly abandoned by the pianist. Soft. Haunting strains. Violins. French horns. Chimes, soft in the background.

Ponies … 

The pianist turns on the bench, his face in transition: a study in wonder. His blue eyes widen further, brim-full now, as a hundred emotions war for dominance across his mobile features.

His hands drop from the keyboard, and he reaches for the crutches someone has so thoughtfully propped against the piano bench at his side. It doesn't matter any longer who might see his lameness …

With effort he stands, pushing himself up, leaning there for a moment, and then his hands are on the stallion. The crutches fall away and clatter loudly on the floor of the stage. The mustang clenches, but does not move, standing fast, sensing that his towering strength is needed by this fragile human.

Behind them, the orchestra continues to play softly.

The piano player doesn't notice. His hands are locked together, fingers laced, over the powerful neck … and the stallion is lifting him up … up …

… up and up, until his feet leave the floor, and he is hanging there, as close to Heaven as he will probably ever come.

The stallion lowers him gently and he is standing again. The horse becomes his crutch now, buoying him up as he balances with difficulty against the sloping shoulder, on one foot.

The pianist moves his artist's hands to the soft muzzle of the mustang, and they stand there together in the unity of a minor miracle, and another touch of Injun Magic.

00000000

There was no sound at first …and Gregory House stood motionless, eyes looking somewhere off into the far distance, high over the heads of the vast audience … like a man emerging from a dream.

When James and Elan walked back from behind the curtain to rejoin him, the screams and the applause that swelled around them threatened to blow the shingles right off the roof.

Sidewinder … Spirit Wind … ol' weed eater … trembled slightly at the noise, and snorted softly, but made no attempt to pull away from House, whose hand still rested on his shoulder for balance.

Wilson handed up the crutches, and Gregg leaned on them with a slight grimace of pain at first. Then his face cleared, and the three of them acknowledged the crowd as the stallion's neigh rang out.

From beyond the curtain, a black silky body left the side of her smiling master with a flurry of excited barking, and catapulted to the side of the man she was compelled to protect with her life. Finally the curtains swung shut on the men and the horse and the dog and the orchestra, which once again took up a familiar ballad: "Take Me Home, Country Roads".

The crowd was screaming, shouting, whistling and shrieking. It had been a four-Kleenex night.

House still stood dazed, hardly believing his eyes, one hand on Amiga and his eyes on the strong, healthy stallion. He pinned Elan and James with that penetrating gaze he commanded so well and spoke only one word. "How?"

"When they took you off the desert," Elan yelled above the noise of the crowd, "you said: 'don't shoot Silverware … he got the Butch Cavendish Gang!' So Sam and Alan Beckett saved him. Took out the bullet, and we nursed him until he was well. We wanted to surprise you. Guess we did, huh?"

Gregg nodded. "You did! He looks really good for a mangy old weed eater!"

"I will be setting him free into the desert," Elan said. "He has earned his freedom, and his mares will throw sturdy colts. I thank you, Gregory House."

"You are welcome, Elan Atcitty. And thank _you_!"

From beyond the curtain, the auditorium full of emotional people was still thundering for encores. It opened again and they found themselves thrust into the spotlight once more. Even members of the Philharmonic stood in tribute, applauding. The phone bank tenders stood, along with Bonnie and Alan and Lisa and Eric. They were all applauding, some tearfully. The others who had participated, returned to the stage in congratulation, and they all took an unorganized bow that looked more like a collection of "Roadies" grouped around a prominent celebrity.

Later, they said their farewells to Bonnie Raitt and Alan Jackson, who had stayed to sign autographs until their hands were numb. Sonny and Nikki left to take them to the airport in Flagstaff and everyone else prepared to leave also. The auditorium was nearly empty. Elan prepared to mount "Spirit Wind" to ride him to the outskirts of town where a big horse trailer stood ready to transport him to the edge of the desert … and freedom.

The mascot of the "First Annual Rez Benefit Concert" was going home.

House sat on the piano bench with the mustang's big head cradled in his arms for long minutes just before Elan rode him away, and House whispered something into the animal's ear. When questioned later, he refused to reveal to anyone what he'd said. He did not even tell Wilson; just smiled smugly and mysteriously.

Foreman and Cuddy and Rema Marks finally caught up when the building's maintenance crew followed them to the front doors and prepared to lock up behind them.

Gregg House leaned against the side of the building for a moment, grimacing with pain and fishing in his jacket pocket for a Vicodin. He'd been hurting for a couple of hours, but there was nothing to keep him distracted now, and his leg was on fire. Jeffrey Geiger remained close to his side, offering support.

Rema gave Wilson the keys to her private car and sent him into the parking lot to find the red Trail Blazer. He was back in two minutes and they assisted Gregg into the front seat. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. Wilson drove like a bat out of hell and they arrived back at Rez at 4:30.

Exhausted, and still in pain, Gregory House rode up to his room in the wheelchair. He took two Vicodin this time and rode out the misery until it eased away the fire and he finally went to sleep.

00000000

It was past ten on Sunday morning before anyone who had attended the Benefit began to move around. Except Sonny, of course, who decided to wait for the others to get fully awake by stirring up a concoction of sausage, eggs, potatoes, onions and coffee in the kitchen. He was sitting at a table in the fresh-painted dining room with a large cup of coffee and a plateful of "greasy kid stuff" in front of him and Amiga beside him, when he heard the first stirrings of activity.

Bodies began showing up one by one from ten o'clock until about noon. They looked at his plate and wrinkled their noses, but when they filled their own plates and sat down with him, grunting a series of "good mornings", they found that it tasted better than it looked. Rema, Nikki, Lisa and Eric joined him one at a time.

James Wilson pushed Gregg House into the room in the wheelchair closer to 1:00 p.m. Both were dressed in old clothing and looked comfortable and refreshed. Sonny looked up from his plate and grinned. "Morning, Paleface Bro," he said. "Morning Gregg … you doing all right?"

Wilson smiled and pulled out a chair from the next table. Then cleared a place for Gregg and turned to walk toward the kitchen. "Slept like a rock," he said.

House nodded affirmative, grateful that Wilson did not cater to him too much with Cuddy and Foreman there. "Me too," he said. "You people pulled a fast one on me last night. Were you all in on it?" He leaned forward against the table and turned to look at them with an accusing expression.

"Pretty much," Sonny admitted. "We knew the horse was alive and you didn't. Just a small sin of omission … no biggie."

Gregg's hand went to his thigh and he rubbed at it behind the lip of the table. "I should be pissed off at all of you … but I'm not. Thanks." He looked around the room and saw only Sonny, Rema, Nikki, Foreman and Cuddy, plus Wilson who was emerging from the kitchen with their food and coffee on a tray. "Where is everybody? Did they all go home last night?"

"Yeah. They were invited out here, but they all had to leave."

Wilson served House his breakfast, then sat down at his side, anxious eyes traveling to the upraised leg and Gregg's palm pressed down upon it. "Sore?"

"A little. Eat your breakfast! I'm fine."

"Would anybody like to hear how we made out last night?"

Of course they would!

"We cleared more than $75,000. That will get us new beds for the men's and women's second-floor wings. Nothing fancy, but it will be enough." Sonny grinned. "If this keeps up, this place is going to step right into the' Twentieth Century'!"

There was laughter and the shaking of heads.

"And next year will be the 'Second Annual Rez Hospital Benefit Concert," Nikki said. "You can't beat the concept for bringing people together. Even the mayor and the head of the City Council were there last night."

Lisa Cuddy looked over at her with a conspiratorial smile. "You'd better start booking your returning acts now!" She said, looking pointedly at House and Wilson.

Both men wrinkled their noses at her and pulled faces. But they laughed while doing it. Lisa didn't think she'd ever seen Gregory House in such a mellow mood since she'd known him. Miracles still happened now and then.

Beside her, Eric Foreman held his tongue, knowing that no matter what he said, House would make him pay for it when they went back to work at PPTH. Still, he found his attention straying back and forth from House to Wilson and back again. Something between the two of them was different than it had been before. He knew what it looked like, but he dared not think it, even to himself. And so he ignored it. It was none of his business anyway.

00000000

They said their goodbyes in the dining room at 3:00 p.m., and Sonny and Jim loaded the luggage in the back of the Hummer. Ron was waiting at the airport with the Learjet, telling them how much he had enjoyed the concert. They exchanged hugs all around, then reluctantly climbed aboard.

Sonny and Nikki were waving from the edge of the runway as the sleek aircraft took to the clouds.

The adventure was over. They were going home.

Somehow, there was a touch of anti-climax in that thought …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

56


	30. Chapter 30

- Chapter 30 –

"Promises, Promises"

"What are you doing?"

"Not much of anything, why?"

"Just wondered. Feel like going somewhere for supper, or are you still too sore?"

"I've felt better …"

"House?"

"Ah … Jimmy … you worry too much. I'm fine!"

"Where have I heard that before?"

"Right here, I guess. Same time, same channel."

"Would you like me to order in a pizza? Or are you hungry for Chinese?"

"Pizza. With everything! And a six pack."

"Okay."

"I've really gotta take a shower. I'm stiff … think I just need to get under the hot water awhile."

"Okay. Is there anything I can do to help? Your leg has been kind of bitchy lately, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, it has, but no … I'll be fine. I just need to get the-hell out of this damn chair. Lend me an arm, will you? Thanks. _Ow! Shit!_ No. It's all right now."

"If you need anything, yell! I love you."

"I will. Ditto!"

"Would you like a massage tonight?"

"Oh God! I'll shine your shoes for a month!"

"That'll be the day. Get going!"

"'Kay. Later."

"Later."

00000000

ONE WEEK LATER:

"Good evening, Dr. House. Are you about ready to head home?"

"Why so formal, Wilson? I need to put some stuff away and get offline. Stuff those folders in my back-pack, willya?"

"Sure. I'm not being formal. I'm being … original."

"There's a difference?"

"I used to think so. Here … hand me that! You know you can't carry the damned thing with crutches."

"Here."

"Okay. That it?"

"Yeah. Think so. Let's go. We goin' to McCarthy's … or over to Applebee's?"

"I had thought maybe Applebee's for a change."

"Okay. Help me up?"

"Here you go."

"Okay. Ow! God Damn!"

"The pain worse?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"I dunno. Don't know many Popes."

"Smartass."

Massage tonight?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

"House?"

"Huh?"

"The night of the concert?"

"What concert? Oh … that concert …Yeah?"

"What did you whisper in the damn horse's ear?"

"What the hell brought _that_ up?"

"Nothin' really … I was thinking about Sonny and Rema and Amiga and Rez … and I just always wondered. What'd you say?"

"I just told 'im … 'See ya next year, old man!'"

"That's it?'

"Yeah. And I told him to go find himself a hooker … Why?"

"Oh … how profound! I thought it might have had to do with 'Injun Magic'!"

"It did! It had _everything_ to do with 'Injun Magic'! Wilson, get your shit together and let's go!"

"Okay …"

00000000

ONE MONTH LATER:

"Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"Come here!"

"I'm right here. What?"

"Look at this!"

"House?"

"Did you see that?"

"Yeah … _Oh My God!_ Can you do it again?"

"I don't know. Unhh … fuck! _ Ow! _Yeah. Oh Jesus!"

"What happened? Can you do it _again?_"

"I'm trying. There! _Ouch! Shit! _ Maybe your massages are working …"

"Let me get under and raise your leg …"

"Okay … careful!"

"Ever known me to be anything but?"

"Sorry."

"Okay, got you. Try to do it again."

"_Ow!"_

"It moved. I felt it. Your knee just bent … on its own!"

"It pulls like hell! Hurts … ahhh!"

"House?"

"Ummmm … what?"

"It's starting to flex … after all this time!"

"_Been_ a freakin' _year!_"

"Yeah, I know. God, Gregg! This is fantastic!"

"Don't get all mushy on me! You just called me by my first name! Think maybe I'll be able to use the cane again?"

"Maybe if you're careful … don't rush it."

"No shit?"

"No shit!"

00000000

ONE MONTH LATER:

"Hey House …"

"Hey Wilson …"

"Did you go see Norm Lyons today?"

"Yup!"

"What did he say?"

"The same thing you said a month ago … 'Be Careful!!!'"

"But he thinks you can do it?"

"He's not sure, but he says it won't hurt me to try. I'm not supposed to rush it. Duh …"

"Gregg, don't be a smartass!"

"There goes that first-name crap again! You're getting pretty familiar. Me?"

"Yeah, you!"

"Would never occur to me."

"Roll over and let me work on your leg."

"Okay. _Ow!_ Easy!"

"Sorry …"

"Don't think I'll tell Cuddy … or the kids."

"Why?"

"Haw haw haw … gonna keep it a secret!"

"Why, for heavens sake?"

"Well, I think after I get back on the cane, we can surprise Cuddy together."

"Huh? How?"

"Well … how about if we ride into her office on horseback … both of us!"

"Huh?"

"Naked!"

"You're _such_ an idiot!"

"I know. But it's fun."

"Yeah, I know. I love you, Gregg."

"Back at'cha … Jimmy! Let's go to bed."

"Coming …"

00000000

The last sound in the room was the click of the light.

But then the sheets rustled a little …

THE END

62


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